If They Only Knew

I wake up in a bed that is too firm. The sheets are rough to match. My head is pounding, my thoughts foggy, as I look around to see that I am in a hospital room. Large medical machines are emitting a sporadic high-pitched beeping that makes my head throb even harder. “W—wh—what happened,” I wonder aloud to the empty room. It is a struggle to get the words out. My lips and mouth are painfully dry. How long have I been here? I shift in my bed and am instantly overcome with a searing pain that shoots across my body. It radiates from somewhere within my torso and I freeze, holding my breath until it dissipates.

I do my best to remain motionless in the hard bed as I wait for a doctor or nurse, but no one comes. What's going on? I wonder, my thoughts are still groggy. Either I'm suffering from a concussion or I'm on strong medication, either way, my head doesn't seem to be clearing of this intense fog. Where is everyone? Why isn't anyone coming to check on me? After a while, I attempt to take an inventory of my injuries by testing my limbs with slight, easy movements. First, I slowly flex my right foot, then my left. Not much pain there. I bend my right leg slightly at the knee, moving it one way and then the other. I only feel a little discomfort, nothing too bad. I start to lift my left knee and cry out as pain emanates up my thigh, all the way up through my groin and torso. I lose consciousness.

When I come to again, the first thing I notice is something heavy on my wrist. It's cold and uncomfortable. Was this there the last time I woke? I can't remember. I try to bring my arm in front of my face but am met with resistance. Bracing myself, I lift my head slightly to glance down at my arm, wincing at the sharp pain that results. I see a handcuff on my right wrist; I'm handcuffed to the bed. My head is still pounding but my brain starts to clear a little as panic takes hold. What's going on? What did I do? It dawns on me that I can't remember anything at all. I have no idea what led me to wake up in the hospital, and, more concerning, I have no idea who I am. Obviously, something bad happened and the handcuff suggested that I had some part in it. But what that part was, or what “it” was, was lost on me.

Finally, a nurse enters the room, breaking me free of my thoughts. She is accompanied by a young police officer dressed in full uniform. I can see that he is armed. He takes position by the door as the nurse moves towards the bed. I'm surprised when she doesn't acknowledge me, with words or even eye contact, as she goes about her business- checking the noisy machines, my blood pressure, my temperature, and bandages. I can sense her discomfort in having to be so close to me. Her name tag reads Nancy.

“Excuse me, Nancy,” I ask and watch as she recoils at my voice, “can you please tell me what I'm doing here? What happened to me?”

“You were in an explosion.” She answers but will still not look at me.

“An explosion? Where? When?” I am confused.

She meets my eye with a look that instantly makes me wish she hadn't, and says, “I think the details are best left to the detective.”

“Detective?” I repeat, and all the hairs on my body rise. Nancy exits the room with the police officer following close behind her. A long thin window on the side of the door reveals that the officer has taken up the same position on the other side. I look from the officer's back to the handcuff keeping me fixed to the bed. If I was the victim of an explosion why do I have an armed guard outside my room and a handcuff on my wrist? What is it they think I've done? My heart sinks as the thought evolves. Am I the person they think I am?

The question tortures me as I wait for the detective with nothing else to occupy my mind. When he walks through the door hours later, he is followed by a different police officer, who quickly stations himself at the door like the one who had come before him. Evidently, they're taking shifts. In stark contrast to Nancy, the detective doesn't shy from my eyes, instead, he sets a glare upon me that reads as I am the vilest person he's ever laid eyes upon.

“Mr. Bradley? Or Michael, if you prefer,” He says to me.

“Wha- who? Is that my name?” I ask, having no idea.

“You're telling me you don't remember your own name?” He is skeptical.

“No, I don't remember anything before waking up here. I don't know my name, where I live, or who I am. No one will explain what happened, only that I was in some kind of explosion. Can you fill me in please, detective, and tell me why I'm handcuffed to the bed?” I ask in earnest but the detective turns his back to me to address the officer at the door. He mutters something I can't hear and the officer disappears down the hall. The detective turns back to face me but is silent, staring at me but not putting words to his gaze, and the air is thick until the officer returns with a doctor.

“Has he got amnesia, doc?” The detective questions the doctor, who proceeds to check me out, peering into my eyes and ears with a bright little light before prodding me with his pointy fingertips and asking questions I didn't know the answers to. Once finished, he turns to face the detective.

“It's entirely possible he has amnesia. He suffered head trauma in the explosion and is showing signs of a slight concussion. If so, his memory will return. Unfortunately, there is no way to predict when, it could be hours, weeks, even months,” he informs.

As the doctor heads for the door, I call out, “can I get something for the pain please, doctor?” He stops and gives me a look that I can't read but I get the impression that I'm not going to get any relief as he leaves the room without even a word of acknowledgment. So much for the Hippocratic oath.

As I notice an amused look on the detective's face, a sudden wave of anger passes through me. This feels like a terrible nightmare I can't wake up from. They're treating me like a criminal but I'm not. At least I really don't think I am, I still can't remember.

“If you've lost your memory, then I guess there's no point in asking you my questions just yet...well, maybe a couple. Let's see if it brings anything back,” the detective says. My body grows tense.

“Do you remember where you work, Mr. Bradley?” I shake my head. “Does the Do Good Foundation ring any bells? Maybe you'll remember your boss, Clive Harrington?” I shake my head again. “No? I take it back, you must have amnesia because everybody knows Clive. I had the honor of talking with him about an hour ago and he told me that he fired you last week. Does that sound familiar to you? Do you remember getting angry with him for firing you, Mr. Bradley?” As if his harsh, accusatory tone wasn't enough, the detective leans over the bed to get in my face as he grills me. His tactics are effective, I quickly start to sweat. I still can't remember anything he's talking about, but clearly, I'm in serious trouble.

“I don't...I...” I trail off.

“One more thing and then I'll be on my way,” he glances to the officer briefly before settling his gaze back on me, “we've found your wife's body, Michael, but where is your daughter?” I stare at him in horror. Seeing that he'd gotten the reaction he was after, the detective says, “You think on it. I'll be back in a day or two,” and leaves the room. All I can do is gawk after him.

My head spins. My wife's body? My daughter? My heart aches for them though I hadn't even known they existed moments before. I wonder if I have truly done something terrible, but feel it in my bones that I couldn't hurt anyone, let alone the people that I love. But I guess I don't really know myself. And if I am...capable of that...then I don't ever want to know it. I never want to understand how someone could do something like that. Just then, an image of a young girl passes before my eyes. She looks to be twelve or thirteen, and I feel there is a good chance she is my daughter. I see that she has a look of pure terror on her face. Her image fades from my vision and another one flashes before me. I see a woman tied to a chair, crying, and though I don't recognize her any more than the girl, I know she is my wife. As the vision fades, an overwhelming sense of desperation takes its place. Oh, God. Could the detective be right? Did I hurt my family? I can't hold back the tears.

A week passes and my memory still doesn't return. I'm haunted by the images of my wife and daughter, with no further context they paint a picture that is increasingly bleak. The time comes when the doctor deems me well enough to be transported to jail, and a small group of officers comes for me. I do nothing to fight for myself, offer no plea, I have no will to try. I am a broken man.

***

Clive Harrington, the highly respected founder and CEO of the Do Good Foundation, a charity that aims to provide funding for many different youth programs across the globe, sits at his custom-designed Parnian desk. Busy at work, he is interrupted by a knock on the door. He allows the man, the head of his security team, to enter and watches as he walks up to the desk and stands at attention before him. “Status report?” Clive prompts.

“Everything is on track. Though Michael didn't die in the explosion with his wife as planned, he's been arrested and charged with her murder as well as the bombing. No one is suspicious.” The man reports in a monotone.

“And the girl?” Clive asked, raising an eyebrow.

“She's at the location, ready for transport,” the man replies.

“Good.” Clive nods his head and waves the man away. Satisfied, he goes back to work.

Meanwhile, a couple of blocks away, a police officer stumbles upon Michael Bradley's car in a private underground parking lot owned by the Do Well Foundation. The car contained within its trunk a file box that held all of the proof needed to take down a major human trafficking ring, one that was run by none other than Clive Harrington. Michael had been tracking his boss's crimes for months, all was almost lost when he stopped into work one Sunday afternoon for a forgotten file. Leaving his wife and daughter in the running car, he'd hurried inside and stumbled across his boss conducting “business”. Harrington's lackey's seized him and his family, and, after a terrifying confrontation, the men left with his daughter and set the plan in motion to eliminate Michael and his wife, while painting him as a disgruntled former employee.

The information in the file box led to Michael's immediate exoneration, his daughter was promptly rescued and returned to him. Clive, on the other hand, received a rude awakening when he was housed with some inmates who were less than sympathetic. On the morning of his sentencing hearing, Clive was found lying on the floor of his cell, beaten to the brink of death, with the words “Do Good” written in blood next to his body.