I think that the first memory my mind formed upon awakening was of my body, prone, in the arms of my friend Jessie in the moth battered light of her front porch. People were crying, afraid. Then came police, an ambulance and a series of refusals. Then nothing and nothing. Scattered images of my bedroom, and finally weak sunlight as I was wheeled through an emergency room. There were scans, a young, very tired doctor. In my room the cast of visitors flickered and changed. I heard words of consternation, of anger. Then I was home and Laura returned from Chicago. Then nothing, and nothing. It is five days out. I now have twenty-four hours of mostly unpunctuated memory. I’m told I made some nonsensical phone calls. I’m told the local news called me- or maybe I called them. Yesterday, Wednesday was my first day of self-awareness, for the most part. My phone’s message box is full. Someone found my phone by a dumpster and called people until it found its way back to me. Cheap phone. They got my wallet. All told they got maybe sixty bucks. I got a busted skull and a broken leg, a concussion and a hole in relative time.
I don’t remember anything about the attack. The injuries I sustained to my head did something to time and memory in retrograde. The hour leading up to the moment that I was taken down is honeycombed, spongy. The details dialing down geometrically as memory moves toward the moment. I am like a watch approaching mechanical failure. The chronographic error quotient rising as the seconds tick toward demise. There is a rough, scabby circle hidden in my hair just above the point where my spine connects to my skull and a smaller bloody kiss in the middle of my forehead where my head found the pavement. There was a witness. I don’t know if I was told about what happened, don’t remember, but I hope not.
As I come back to life I am struck by how little anger I have toward my attackers. Perhaps having never seen them they are not human and thus take on characteristics that otherwise belong to a natural event. I know people get angry at tornadoes and earthquakes, but I am not one of those people. And though I did nothing wrong I am quite thoroughly disgusted with myself. I came into existence again overwhelmed with guilt for the stress I put the people I love through. It is not sensible. I would be better off loathing a tornado.
More as I remember,
The Science of Fiction