21
I come round in stages, struggling to shed the cocoon of my dreams. They seem so real, so urgent, until the tug of daylight on my eyelids takes charge and one world blends into another. As my knuckles rub this place into focus, the harsh reality of a moment ago fades, filed away into a dark drawer.
‘You’re awake.’
The man’s voice startles me. I move to sit up, only for a sharp pain to explode in my head, forcing me back down.
‘Easy now. You need to take things slowly, lad. Doctor’s orders.’
‘What happened?’ I whisper, wary not to bait the throbbing.
‘You’ve suffered a head trauma. I don’t know exactly how you did it. I wasn’t there, but it looks like you fell off a ladder. I found you unconscious in a pile of soil. That cushioned your fall, but your head wasn’t as lucky as the rest of your body …’
The voice continues, but I’ve stopped listening. My mind is on something more important. Something I’ve just realised. Something that makes my blood run cold.
I’ve no idea where I am.
The part of the room I can see from my horizontal position on the single bed is unfamiliar: mint green paint; a pine wardrobe and a matching bookcase busy with spine-creased paperbacks; varnished floorboards and a cream rug.
But that’s not what’s really worrying me. Neither is the fact I don’t recognise the voice muttering away in the background. It’s far worse than that.
‘I don’t know who I am,’ I say. My voice echoes in the room.
Then there is silence.
Tuesday, 4 April 2017
Dear Sam,
I hope you don’t mind me writing to you. It’s something I need to do. I have so many thoughts racing around my head all the time. They need to be channelled. This is my attempt to do that – and to avoid going loopy – so please bear with me.
I miss you so much. You’re in my mind all the time. No matter what else I’m doing, there’s a part of me wishing you were there too. I’ll never forgive myself for what happened. I’m miserable without you. We all are. But I’m not going to keep on with these depressing thoughts. If I do, I’ll end up crying all over this paper and having to start again. And why would you want to read that kind of thing? No, I’m not doing this to dwell on the past. There’s been plenty of that already. I can’t promise it won’t creep in here and there, but I’ll do my best to avoid it.
So what am I going to tell you? Whatever’s going on in my life, I suppose, and my reaction to it. Let’s be clear: for this to work, I’m going to have to think of you differently. I need to be able to confide in you, to tell you anything and everything, and that won’t be the case as things stand. So, to make that easier, I’m imagining writing to a future version of you, as if nothing bad ever happened. I know it’s a bit weird, but I’ve given it a lot of thought and it’s the best I can come up with. On the plus side, I think it will also make it easier to steer clear of the sadness: the black hole that threatens to swallow me if I think about it too much.
I
