"Footprints - chapter 2" by Yuki Erika Radcliffe

        Voices were floating around, vague and senseless, muttering things that, surely, could not be words.  I strained my ears, struggling to understand what they were saying through the dense fog that had somehow gathered in my head.

        “Understand… concern, but…  important… perhaps an evaluation…”

        “Listen here… Perfectly alright!  Whatever happened… over it by now –”

        “Suicide… very serious matter, Mr. Parker.  We might need to keep her here for awhile, determine that she won’t try it again.  Most failed attempts are usually followed by more.”

        “She wouldn’t try it again, not knowing what happened this time.”

        I opened my eyes.  The florescent lights overhead were so painfully bright that I had to shut them again immediately, but not before I had a brief glimpse of the room around me.  The walls and ceiling were white, and I lay in a white-framed bed, under a white blanket.  A man in a white uniform stood over me, his hands, in latex gloves, gesturing rapidly as he talked to someone outside my peripheral vision.

        Was this an insane asylum?  Had someone discovered the body and somehow linked it back to me?  Were they going to lock me up here, or would I be sent to prison instead?

        And someone, a girl, had tried to kill herself.  How could that possibly concern me?  Unless – Was it Sandy?  No!  This is all my fault, I never should have hurt her, what have I done?!

        I tried to scream, to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, but the only sound I could manage was a dull groan.  “Mnnwh…”

        The voices stopped.  I heard footsteps as someone approached my bedside.  “Joan?  Joan, honey, are you alright?”

        Joan?  Who the hell is Joan?

        Determined to ignore the light, I forced my eyes open, and all of a sudden, I found my voice again.”

        “AAARGH!!!”

        The man, whose head had been only inches from mine when I screamed, recoiled in surprise.  I continued to scream.

        “Who are you?!  What do you think you’re doing – get away from me!  No!  Don’t touch me, you –”

        He had grabbed my arm, which I suddenly realized was wrapped in bandages.  Instinctively, I tried to pull away, but was surprised at how weak my arms were.  Knowing that something had gone very, very wrong, I tried to twist my arm out of his grasp, only to scream as a searing pain tore through my wrist.  Seconds later, the bandages were soaked in blood. 

        “What did you do?” I demanded, seizing the end of my bandage to unravel it.  “What the hell did you do?!”

        “Joan, what are you doing?  Don’t –”

        I gasped as the length of the bandage coiled on the floor at my feet, revealing three deep lines cut into my arm, all of which were now bleeding profusely.

        A firm, gloved hand touched my shoulder, and the doctor, ignoring the apologies issuing from the other man’s mouth, led me back to the bed. 

        “What’s going on?” I asked.  “How did I get here?”

        “You don’t remember, dear?” asked a woman standing in the corner.  She was probably in her late forties or early fifties.  She wore a pale green floral print gown – her pajamas – and fuzzy green slippers.  Fiery red hair hung frizzy about her shoulders, framing her worried face.

        Beside her stood a tall, broad man, whose dark hair was graying around the edges.  Unlike the woman, he was well dressed, wearing a dark suit and tie.  He looked like he’d just stepped out of a court building.  His brow was furrowed, not with fear or worry, but with unmistakable anger.  “Your mother asked you a question!” he spat.

        I shook my head.  “I don’t remember anything.”

        The woman who thought she was my mother gave the man – my father, I presumed – a pleading look.  He rolled his eyes.  “She’s your daughter, tell her.”

        “She’s your daughter, too, James.”

        My head was reeling.  I’m not anyone’s daughter!  What’s going on?  Where am I, and who are these people?  And why do they think I’m their daughter?  Why do they think I’m a girl, even?  I don’t look like -

        I glanced down at my chest, and stifled a squeal.  A rather feminine squeal.  This was not my body.  Protruding from my chest were two large lumps, which looked suspiciously like breasts.  I peered at my arms.  They were thinner than I remembered, with tiny wrists and delicate looking fingers.  My legs, sticking out from beneath the hospital gown, were smooth and – for lack of a better word – womanly.

        I groaned.

        The man who had grabbed my arm – which the doctor was now sewing back together – stepped forward.  “You slit your arms last night, after I went to bed.  I found you in the kitchen this morning, and called the ambulance.  Joan, honey, I wish you would tell me what’s wrong…” 

        He trailed off and looked at me.  When I said nothing, he cleared his throat and continued.

        “I blame myself.  I knew something was bothering you last night.  You were so distant – was something on your mind?”

        Last night… I struggled to remember.  Last night… I went out with sandy… and later… I ran into… him!

        I groaned again.  As the memories rushed back into my head, I struggled to make sense of them.  I caught images – just flashbulb memories – of him, covered in dust, on the ground, screaming.  I saw, again, the blood on my hands, and the corpse I’d left behind.  I was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of nausea.

        “Are you sick, Joan?” the man asked.  “Do you need a drink?”

        “Who are you?” I asked, ignoring his question. 

        He looked hurt and confused.  “My name is Braden.  I’ve been your boyfriend for two years.  I asked you to marry me six months ago.  You… you said yes.”

        I looked him over.  He was tall and blonde, with vibrant blue eyes that bore into mine as he searched for a clue as to what was going on. 

“I wont marry you,” I said at length.  “I don’t love you.  I don’t even know you.”

He gaped at me, completely dumbstruck.  “You – you – how can you say that?!  You know everything about me!  We’ve lived together for months!  We made love just last night, and now you’re telling me that meant NOTHING?!”

“Control yourself, Mr. Braden,” the doctor warned, “or I’ll have to have you thrown out for disturbing my patient.”

Braden’s face fell, and he stood slouched in the middle of the room, defeated.  “What’s wrong with her, doctor?”

“I don’t know,” the doctor replied, cutting the loose thread from the finished stitch on my arm.  “As far as I know, there hasn’t been any brain damage.  It’s possible that the lack of blood flow to her brain over the night is causing problems with her memory retrieval.  Whether or not this will be a permanent condition, I can’t say.”

They continued talking, but I stopped listening after awhile.  From what I could understand, I was a young woman, engaged to a man still in law school – one of my father’s coworkers.  I had been suffering from a mild form of depression since middle school, but no one had expected me to try to kill myself.  Braden despaired at the loss of my memory, which meant that he might never know why I’d done it. 

What a load of garbage, I thought to myself, trying to ignore the throbbing in my wrist.  I’m dreaming.  This is a ridiculous dream, and I’ll wake up soon, in my bed at home…

I watched the second tick by on the clock, waiting for my nightmare to end.  Eventually, my company left, and the doctor stationed a nurse in my room.  “I’m not allowed to leave you alone.  I know you’re probably very frustrated right now –” (“Humph!” I snorted.)  “–but I need to stay with you and make sure you’re okay.  Okay?”

“You talk like my kindergarten teacher,” I remarked, and she shut up quickly after that. 

I continued to watch the clock.  As the minute hand spun slowly around, I felt my eyelids growing heavy.  The room began to spin with the clock.

When I woke up, it was dark, and there was a new nurse in the room.  She said nothing, but beckoned to a plate at my bedside, covered in what might have been cole slaw and mashed potatoes.  My stomach rumbled loudly, but I ignored the food. 

“Can I have a mirror?” I asked the nurse. 

She growled at me, her voice scratchy and low, “I can’t give you anything made of metal, plastic, or glass.  Sorry, kiddo.”

I looked at her, trying to make out her features through the darkness.  She was tall and wide, and had a very square jaw.  I wouldn’t have been surprised if, in better lighting, I’d seen a beard on her face.  I decided that any wrong moves under her watch could result in a lot of unnecessary pain.

I rolled over and went back to sleep.

I stayed in that bed for three days.  I didn’t eat, even though I was presented with three meals a day.  Doctors and nurses came and left, some of them just checking in, others staying for hours at a time, asking me questions about my childhood, my living situation, my eating habits, most of which I was unable to answer.

On the morning of the third day, that man – Braden – came back.  “Your parents are taking you back home.  I’ve already dropped off your stuff… boxes of clothes, books… Joan, are you even listening to me?”

For a long time, id’ been staring at the window.  The doctor had noticed this earlier; he’d commented on the beautiful weather.  I didn’t care about the weather.  There were no mirrors in the room, so I’d been trying to get a clear image of my reflection in the window.  The sunlight outside made it difficult for me to see my face, nestled between the trees and buildings and telephone poles, and before night fell, a nurse would always come in and close the curtains. 

“Yeah.  Yeah, I’m listening.”

“Have you remembered anything?  Anything at all?”

I said nothing, but continued to stare at the window.  Braden sighed, and, to my great relief, left the room. 

I’d been propped up on my pillows each day, trying not to remember anything.  I closed my eyes and tried to block out the images of blood and death that haunted my mind.  I crossed my arms to avoid looking down at my new breasts.  Long red hair hung in my face;  I tried to tie it back.  Needless to say, I failed.  I vented my frustration by shouting at the nurse, who said it wasn’t safe for me to have a ponytail. 

I was certain that I was making a fool of myself, but I didn’t care.  Everything was so confusing, so absolutely wrong.  In one night, my world had been turned upside down, and all I could do was sit there, trying to figure out how it had happened.

Once or twice a day, James and his wife – her name, I found out, was Margaret – would come in to visit.  James obviously thought this to be a waste of his time.  I agreed – he was unpleasant, and I didn’t want him there, anyway.  I was certain that, contrary to what Margaret said, I’d never seen this man before in my life.  He certainly wasn’t making a good first impression.  He sat in the seat closest to the door and farthest from my bed, and refused to talk to me, or even look at me.

Margaret would sit right by my bedside and attempt to make eye contact before she started talking.  This annoyed me even more than James’s attitude. 

“Your father wasn’t always like that,” she informed me.  “He just thinks you’re doing this to get attention, and he doesn’t want to give that to you.”
        I glared at her, hoping that she would get the hint and scoot backwards ten feet or so.  “If he wants to be an ass, let him!” I spat, loudly enough for him to hear.  “But just so he knows, when I get out of here, I’m going to treat him just the same!”

sure enough, when the time came for me to leave the hospital, Margaret was the one who led me down to the car and tried to buckle me in. 

“I can do it myself,” I told her.  “I’m insane, not retarded.”

“Could have fooled me,” James mumbled, still not looking at me. 

“Why don’t you go get a toupee to cover that bald spot?” I hissed at him.  “Your brain’s frying under this sun.”

A significant look from Margaret sealed my lips, but not before the insult had fallen from them.  I knew this man would always hate me for it.