Before He Sleeps

It had been nine days since Jacin’s accident. Four of which he spent in a coma and his family and friends spent in a state of despair. When Jacin finally opened his eyes on the evening of the fourth day, his lover George and his parents were placed in his room in different shapes of foreboding: George in a chair, head back and, as Jacin could only assume, counting the holes in the ceiling; Mom sat huddled in a small couch — she seemed to be shrinking into it — and was absently flipping through a Time magazine; and Dad was asleep next to Mom on the couch, a small percussion reverberating from his throat.
Jacin knew he was in a hospital, he just couldn’t remember why or how he arrived there. The more he tried, the more agitated he became. He tried to get someone’s attention, but his mouth felt desert dry and he couldn’t speak. He lifted his arm, which was like lifting a concrete block, and wiggled his fingers until George either finally noticed him or lost count of the holes.
Doctors were immediately called in, and after asking Jacin what he remembered about the accident (which was nothing), they randomly took turns explaining that he was suffering from a form of amnesia that affects both pre- and post-injury memories. Their consoling-covered condescending tones infuriated Jacin.
He just wanted to remember something, anything. Not knowing what happened scared him more than what actually did.
Now home after a couple more days of observation in the hospital — a home barely recognizable — a nauseous fear encumbered Jacin.
He remembers their pet dachshunds and their cat Freddy Kreuger, but not his breed. He remembers the African art decorating the living room, but while looking at it, doesn’t remember why he likes it. He remembers his and George’s bed, but not on what side he prefers to sleep.
These disparaging uncertainties and others compounded by absolutely no memory of the accident and the events leading up to it left Jacin in a near-constant state of depression he assumed (or maybe it was the Oxycodone, which was also making his skin itch as if it was prescription poison ivy). He felt as if he were floating aimless several feet off the ground, detached from the world as it moved along through its daily grind, unnoticed and forgotten even though he was getting more attention than bald Britney Spears.
The front door of their home had been like a revolving door occupied by a handful of unruly six-year-olds for several days. Family and friends brought home-baked cranberry-zucchini bread, flower bouquets, houseplants and a more recreational type of greenery (yet another source of confusion for Jacin). They’d come in with oversized smiles and deep concern emanating from saddened eyes. They’d parrot "how are you feeling?" and "can I do something for you?" day in, day out. They’d offer words of encouragement, push old photographs in his face, tell wild stories of past improprieties they shared.
It was insufferable and made Jacin’s aching bandaged head throb like boiling water.
By the end of the third day home, the commotion had settled to a dull hum, much like the feeling in his right leg. Three pins were surgically inserted to hold together his fractured kneecap and an immobilizer was to be worn 24 hours a day so as not to bend the knee.
The pain was unbearable. The pain made him cry sometimes ... really, most of the time. Sometimes he’d cry so hard his body convulsed a little bit.
Jacin looked at George sitting on the bed next to him (the right side, Jacin realized) watching another compelling Divorce Court.
"Take me there," Jacin finally decided.
"What ... where?" George asked.
"To the Trax station where it happened."
Shaking his head, "No, no. I don’t think that’s a good idea."
"Besides," George continued. "Your parents are coming by soon."
"Then tomorrow," Jacin insisted.
The next morning, after a grueling walk to the truck, George drove them to the 21st South Trax station. Obviously for a Sunday there were just a half dozen people waiting on the platform.
"Anything?" George asked after a couple of minutes.
Tears slid down Jacin’s cheeks. A whisper, "No, nothing."
That night at a quarter past midnight, Jacin’s suddenly in a bar, in the middle of the day, with some friends and a woman he doesn’t know, but whom Josh calls Keri. She removes a photograph from her wallet and passes it around. When it makes its way to Jacin, he sees a photo of a young, conservatively dressed man with black wavy hair and shocking green eyes. The strange woman says to the group, "Mark’s a good husband and father ..."
Suddenly Jacin’s laying face up on cold concrete, pain searing through his body. He just makes out the same man from the photo standing over him, his eyes now more shocked than shocking, and cradling a small girl with velvety blonde curls – the same girl Jacin just risked his life to save.
To be continued …