I come to in an ambulance that's taking me to the hospital
across the
street. I'm wheeled in on a stretcher. I don't know what day it is,
or why I'm
here, but I know enough to know I don't want to be here. My memory's
stuck at
some arbitrary point a couple weeks back.E verything in my short-term bank gone, piecing together the events that led me into the emergency ward is a matter of finding new paths through the neurons to the spot where each memory is stored.
Flanking me, a curtain to separate us, is a man who's just been
wheeled in
with stab wounds, his screams piercing and angry, but alive; and an
old
man who keeps repeating he wishes he were dead, his weak groans hollow
with
resignation. I'd like to be away from this atmosphere, but I'm
getting the full
treatment, fussed over by the nurses and doctor, pulse, blood
pressure, blood
test, the i.v.-- the horrible needle burrows into my vein-- taped to
my arm.
I can feel it, an unwelcome violation,