John Doe #33-1728549

The world was grey, and fuzzy, he could tell it was daylight, but he couldn’t focus on anything. There was something covering his eyes.

He could tell he was on his back, in a very comfortable bed-

He tried to touch his face, touch what was covering his eyes-

No good-

His arms could only move so far and then, something held them down.

“This isn’t good-” he mumbled. His wrists were tied down, he was restrained. Probably in a hospital bed somewhere.

“OH-” a woman’s voice spoke, “You are awake?”

He couldn’t quite ‘place’ her accent, then he had trouble speaking, finally nodded and, “Y-yes.”

“You speak English?”

He nodded again, found it easier to speak this time, “Yes-”

“I get someone who speak English better-” and her shoes squeaked as she left the room and closed a door behind her.

He shuddered, tested the restraints some more, shuddered again.

Nobody came. It felt like hours passed.

He couldn’t move much, began to feel slightly uncomfortable here and there…

Then, he’d almost fallen back to sleep when the door opened and the squeaky shoes came in with a pair of not so squeaky, clicking shoes.

“Hello- Are you still with us?” It was a male voice, with a comforting timbre.

His mouth didn’t want to work again, he nodded, cleared his throat, “Y-yeah – I’m still awake.”

“Do you know where you are?”

That was a shocker, “Uh- I’m guessing this has to be a hospital,” he raised his arms until the restraints held them from rising any further.

“Good guess- Do you know how you came to be here?”

The question exploded through him, “Wow- uh-” he shrugged, “The last thing I remember is dreaming and trying very hard to wake up- I think I made it-”

It was quiet for much too long- then, “Can you tell us your name? We’ve got you listed as John Doe with a number…”

He shuddered, the fear that these disembodied voices belonged to people who doubted his sanity tore through him like an out of control wild fire, “Uh- Jeff-” he said, “Jeff Murgen- M-u-r-g-e-n, It’s an odd spelling, my great grandfather said somebody got it wrong when he immigrated, but he didn’t fight it-”

After a bit of silence, the man’s voice sort of responded, “UH huh- You didn’t have any identification on you- can you tell us your address?”

“33 School Street-”

Silence hung thick in the air for what might have been a long time or an extremely uncomfortable short time.

“We need the city, county, state or province, and all that too- if you don’t mind-”

He swallowed, “Uh, Enfield, Cayuga County, New York- USA….”

The man who’d been asking the questions cleared his throat, sounded a bit apprehensive, “Uh, thank you, we believe you’ve had an accident, you’ve been in a coma for quite some time-”

“Am I blind?”

“Uh- no- your face was rather badly burned, it was scarred- we’ve tried an experimental therapy on you…. Oh, can we you tell us your birthday…. and the year, please?”

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