Chapter 2 A MAN WITH NO NAME

As I arrived at the hospital, the sun had just begun to rise. Following the storm, which took place in the city last night . The city was soaked but tranquil, as if the world had released a long-held breath. The sky remained overcast, with heavy clouds undecided about raining again or giving way to sunshine.

As I walked through the hallway of the hospital, the scents of antiseptic and coffee enveloped me. The night shift was gone , leading to a slower pace and softer voices. The calm atmosphere did little to alleviate the heaviness in my chest as I couldn't stop thinking about the man we had struggled to save.

Having a better understanding of the hospital setup and administration, I was heading towards the nurses' station, but my thoughts were racing over the recently occurred happenings. Carla was alert and exhausted at the same time as she was rounding off her night shift notes. At that moment, she lifted her head up and offered me a slight grin.

"Good morning", she welcomed me before passing over the chart I was to use while in the station.

"Morning," I replied, glancing down at the patient's name. Or rather, the lack of one. "John Doe?"

Carla nods again but this time her face turns serious. "Yes. That's what we are calling him for now. There is no form of identification. No information, not even a mobile phone was on his body when he was rushed in. The surgery did go well, but he is still on his unconscious state"

That news, rather than offer relief, only added to the pressure I felt on my chest. My pressure, which had been bulging for the past few minutes, was sharpening even more. "Do I have one? Assignment focused on this particular person, for today?"

"Yes, ICU Room 6," Carla confirmed. Her tone softened. "Emma, be cautious with this one. Something about him... I don't know, it just feels off."

I nodded, sharing her unease. "I'll keep a close watch on him."

As I approached the ICU, my head was swarming with questions. Who was that man? Why did he go out in such weather, and more so, why did he not have anything with him? The growing discomfort of wanting to know more about him did not just go away and it was something that I was unable to brush aside.

Now it was time to visit the ICU. It was different. It was relaxing in the sense that the only sound was that of a respiration-like machine. The room was well lit and clinically clean, but there was an underlying tone of distress in the air. I walked past other rooms and finally came to Room 6.

I stood still for a second and then turned to the door to walk in. The male patient lay still, sound machine and lights flashing with his heart. His head was masked with a damaged bandage wearing only the worst bruises over his closed eyes, as he barely inhaled and exhaled.

I moved closer, hearing the soft squeaks as my shoes made contact with the tiled floor. He was even more beautiful from up close, regardless of his injuries – a paradox. It would take a sociopath to understand him, his face was sharp and angular and only ropes plaster covered the edges. His tousled dark hair was situated above a solid brow along which could be glimpsed the remnants of a previously fractured, hawkish nose. Everything about him reeked of rich minerals and muscle but there were some and even minutest things that belied that suggestion.

I observed the calluses on his hands and the small scars that ran over his knuckles and forearms. They were not the hands of someone who had spent his life behind a desk or in a boardroom. These were the hands of someone who had toiled, struggled, and possibly endured something horrific.

As I gently checked his IV, I couldn't help but worry about the life this man had led. What had he gone through? What had left him so deeply scarred? I'd seen a lot of wealthy individuals pass through these doors-accidents happen to everyone, after all-but this man was unique. He was more than just a wealthy individual.

As I attempted to make the necessary adjustments with the monitor attached to the side of his bed my mind still lingered on him when I saw a movement, a faint movement of his fingers. I was rooted to the ground, the air having stopped somewhere in the throat and blocking my breath. Looking over his body my eyes settled with his and I saw the eyelashes move.

I came straight to him, so that even the air I breathed was hardly controlled. "Can you hear me?" I slowly, quietly and calmly asked.

Nothing happened for a beat and then one too many quieting beats later, he opened his eyes, sliding them to the right spirally and then closing those circles again. His eyes were wide but unfocused and distant as if something in the distance was attracting his attention. I felt my heart beat so fast as I keenly noticed the struggle to feel what was unusual about the place he was in.

"Hey," Can I hold your hand and get you back to the present? That kind of thing. "You're in the hospital now, there was an accident, but everything will be fine."

Another blink then another one for understandable reasons as his eyelids furiously turned upwards, only this time it was his eyeballs that traced to mine. I remember within that per seconds, as little seconds, the complication of emotions we can have; I swear the panic was looking at me and looking for a way out to my surprise.

"Where...?" His tone was hoarse; it was little more than a whisper, but all the same, one could hear desperation, or fear, rather. He attempted to get up, but as he did so, pain jolted through him, and his fingers dug into the bed rail as though it was the only thing standing between him and the storm.

"Hey, take it slow," I did my best to soothe him as I held him down. "This is not one of those places. It is ok. Just breathe."

He complied, but the look in his eyes revealed otherwise. They searched the walls for any openings as if trapped in a thundering cage. "What...happened?" he managed to get out, his voice barely above a whisper and shaky.

That question shocked me to my core. He didn't even know who he was, or even his name. Why would someone with that sort of suffering be able to exist in this world?

"You were in a car accident," I explained, keeping my voice steady. "You've been unconscious since last night. Do you remember anything?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, his brow furrowing as if trying to pull the memories from some deep, hidden place. But when he opened them again, there was nothing but blank terror.

"I... I don't..." His voice trailed off, the words catching in his throat. "I don't remember anything."

My heart sank at the fear in his voice, the way he looked at me like I was supposed to have all the answers. I'd seen patients with memory loss before, but this felt different. This felt... personal.

"It's okay," I said, trying to reassure him even though I had no idea if it really was. "Sometimes after a trauma, the brain takes a little time to recover. Your memory might come back in a few hours, or it might take longer. But right now, the important thing is that you're safe."

His eyes searched mine, desperate for something to hold onto. "Who... who am I?"

It was really gut-wrenching when I was asked if he knew his name. He didn't even know his own name. How was it possible for anyone to live like that, with such fright, with such void?

I wrapped my head around it. "We don't know yet. There was no form of identification on you when you were brought in. But don't worry, we'll straighten this out. We'll assist you."

For a long time, he uttered no word. Only lies back gazing at the ceiling, his lungs beating fast in and out. He was also devoid of any articulations but only I could see the tension in his body and his suffocation through gripping the bed sheets so tightly that the knuckles were so pale.

"What...what if maybe I will not remember my memory ever?" The voice was scarcely loud, rather the fear that lingered in the air was as a terrifying whisper with a tremor.

I swallowed back trying to put the appropriate phrases in order. Basically, I could not tell what steps would lead to recovery for him. I could not tell, if, ever, he would remember who he was and what had happened to him. That was something I couldn't say to him. That was something I couldn't allow him to sink into.

All right, we will go little by little," I said finally, trying to smile. Although physically, it hurt really a lot, I hoped my expression was maternal. "This is something which you are not alone in. We will sort this out together."

He didn't reply. A senseless gaze was directed to the ceiling. I could see the battle raging within him in his eyes. The battle of trying to form any sorts of ideas that would enable him to know his identity, but there was emptiness in him, nothing was there except dust.

I remained frozen in place, despondently gazing at him. What was there for me to express and to whom? Was there anything in my power to allow this situation to be better?

"You have to sleep," I said softly. "You are in a lot of stress. Your health will take a toll if not given a rest."

There was no disagreement; he made no retorts. It was simply a matter of closing one's eyes and feeling one's heartache and chaos. After observing him for a moment, I respectively departed the place, and closed the door.

As I stood in the hallway, I had countless questions in my mind. Who was that man? Why was he out alone driving on that stormy night? What was the past of this person before the incident? And most importantly, why did he feel like he was connected to the man so much that it felt like his suffering was his own?

I tried to resist thinking about all this to the best of my ability. There was work to be done and there was no way emotions were going to get in the way. But when I had turned away from him and headed down the hall, his fear for some reason still weighed heavily on me.

I found it rather hard to accept that this was just the tip of the iceberg, that whatever this man had gone through was just the beginning. And, for some reasons that I cannot quite articulate as of now, I understood that my life and this man's life were soon going to change very