In an effort to make my writing better for my latest project, I’ve been experimenting with some different writing styles. In the following short story, I’ve used a choppier, less wordy style to project a sense of urgency and desperation. The style itself is supposed to “jive” with the theme of the work, so I would appreciate comments regarding your like or dislike of any elements.

Desperation.

You think you understand that word, don’t you? You’ve been desperate before. You’ve felt the pincers of hunger gnaw at you when you miss your morning bran muffin; you’ve felt the discomfort of a sinus headache or the bloating of gas pain. You might have even experienced something acute, such as a kidney stone, labor, or appendicitis. You sit there, firmly ensconced in your own little universe, surrounded by creature comforts and think you know of desperation.

But you don’t.

There was a man…maybe he was me, maybe he wasn’t. At this point, I can’t really recall. Everything was taken from him. Every single thing. Everything that defined him as a person was ripped from him with a casual brutality that would cause even the meanest of nature’s scavengers to recoil in horror. What do you do when you have no money, no home, no identity, and no future? In this modern day and age, electronic banking and identity confirmation are the norm. If your very self is eradicated from the web of information that binds our society together, where do you turn? Will you ever really know if your existence was real? Descartes said “Cogito ergo sum.” Perhaps it takes an outside observer to really be sure.

It started like any other morning. The digital clamor of the clock radio awoke him shortly before sunrise. He stretched fitfully, ruffled the ears of his faithful dog, and made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth. As he put toothpaste on the toothbrush, he heard a crash from the other end of the house. Abruptly, the dog on the bed sprang to his feet and barked loudly three times, the staccato sound startling the man even more than the crash.

He walked to the door, toothbrush in hand, and peered down the dark hallway. “Hello?” he called. “Is anyone there?” He could hear footsteps, but couldn’t see anyone. “Hello?” he repeated inanely. Behind him, the dog growled low in his throat, the hair on his neck beginning to rise. “Easy, Caesar,” the man said, trying to calm his dog. He realized that he was trying to calm himself more than the dog. “Who’s there?” He asked, his voice reaching a plaintive note near the end.

A form exploded out of the doorway, shrouded in shadow. The man was hit several times with a blunt instrument that he couldn’t see. He doubled over in pain, raising his arms to fend off the blows. “Please,” he said. He could hear Caesar barking frantically. “Please,” he repeated, before a final blow hit him the forehead. It was the last thing he saw for a while.

When he came to, he was in an alleyway, dressed only in a pair of flannel pants and a long sleeve T-shirt. House slippers that had seen better days covered his feet. He ached all over, feeling as though he had tumbled down a flight of stairs. Vaguely, he remembered the activity of the morning. Who had done that to him? Where was he? How long was he unconscious? Looking at the sun nearly on the horizon, he figured that it was either dusk or dawn. He had been out for twelve or twenty-four hours.

Anxiously, he patted his back pocket in an unconscious gesture. He had no wallet. He had no keys. No cell phone was in his pocket, no Blackberry clipped to his belt. His laptop was a distant memory. He patted all the usual places that he would have worn his utility items had he been fully dressed, wincing as he found tender or bruised places.

His stomach growled loudly. If he had really been out for twenty-four hours (was the sun slowly getting brighter or dimmer?), then food was a great option. He walked to the head of the alley and peered around. The skyline was utterly different than he remembered.

He shook his head to clear it. Did he have amnesia? Was he in a different city? Who knew for sure? He began walking, his back to the sun. One direction was as good as any, and he might as well not walk with the sun in his eyes. He hoped that he would begin to recognize landmarks before he had to stop someone and ask for directions. As he walked, the shadows grew shorter and the streets grew busier. People began to appear on the sidewalks. Traffic began to fill the multiple lanes, their horns a cacophony of welcome to the day.

“Excuse me,” the man said, grabbing a pedestrian by his jacket sleeve. “Can you tell me what city this is?”

“Get lost, bum.” The pedestrian shook him off, brushing at his sleeve as he hurried away.

He realized that several people were looking at him. “Are you high?” a teenager asked.

“No!” the man replied. “I was kidnapped out of my home. I was dumped in an alley not far from here. I need help.” Only a group of teens out of the crowd of pedestrians paid him any attention. “Please, can I use your cell phone to call the police?”

The teen who had spoken looked at him dubiously. “I’ll dial the number. You can talk.”

The man nodded in agreement. “Whatever. Please. Just do it.”

“9-1-1 emergency response,” a voice on the other end of the phone said.

The man reported what he remembered in a clipped tone. He finished with: “But I don’t know where I am.”

“Don’t worry, sir. We’re sending someone to come get you.”

Hours later, after telling the story of his kidnapping to three different cops, he was facing a dour police sergeant. “Who are you?” the sergeant asked.

The man realized he didn’t know for sure. “I’m John Ambersham.” He paused. “I think.”

“We don’t have any record of your fingerprints on any of our files,” the sergeant said. “Are you sure you don’t have any ID?”

“Everything was taken from me,” the man called John Ambersham said. “I have nothing.”

The sergeant sighed and folded his hands. “We don’t have a record of a single John Ambersham that lives anywhere within an hour of this area. Are you married?”

“No. I told you that. I live with a golden retriever named Caesar.”

“There’s not a dog registered with the city or any of the local vets with that name.”

“I’m telling you, I was kidnapped out of my home and dumped in an alley.” An edge of desperation crept into his voice.

“As to that,” the sergeant said, and consulted an open file in front of him. “You test positive for barbiturates in your urine. Do you remember being drugged?”

“No. I was beaten. I have the bruises to prove it.” John gestured at his own bruises on his forearms and pointed to the knot on his forehead.

The sergeant pursed his lips. “The doctor who examined you said the bruises looked to be self-inflicted.” He closed the file. “I think we’re going to get you some help, Mr. Ambersham.” He stood, pushing his chair back with a screech.

“Wait,” John said pleadingly. “You have to believe me.”

The sergeant shrugged. “We’re widening our fingerprint search to the national database, so we should be able to identify you soon enough. If you’re who you say you are, we’ll know.” He moved close and put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Hang tight, Mr. Ambersham. We’ll see what we can do, one way or another.” The sergeant left, the door to the Spartan conference room closing solidly behind him.

“I am John Ambersham,” the man said to himself. “And I’m not crazy.”

After an hour of mindless waiting, the door opened again, this time admitting a pretty woman in her mid-thirties. “Hello, Mr. Ambersham,” the woman said. Her voice was a pleasant contralto. “My name is Dr. Chase Horton.”

The man eyed her suspiciously. “Doctor of what?” he asked quietly.

She smiled warmly. “I’m a psychiatrist, Mr. Ambersham. I’m here to help you.”

“So you’re going to take me home?”

She shook her head slowly. “Not right away. You see, we can’t identify you in any of our records.” She reached into a leather attaché case at her feet and pulled out a stack of papers. “Here’s a record of our search. According to this, you don’t exist. Your finger prints don’t match anything in the national or international databases, and there’s nothing that connects to the name you gave us.” She leaned forward, a lock of reddish-blonde hair falling out of place to obscure part of her face. “What’s your real name, Mr. Ambersham?”

He was numb with shock. “I woke up this morning with my dog Caesar. I was about to brush my teeth when I was accosted by a man wrapped in shadow—“

“Hmm,” Dr. Horton said. “That’s the third time you’ve used that phrase: ‘wrapped in shadow.’ What do you suppose that means?”

“I was accosted by a man wrapped in shadow,” he continued, ignoring her question. “I was hit with something. I don’t know if it was his hands or a blunt instrument, and then I woke up in alley in my pajamas.”

“Do you know what barbiturates are, Mr. Ambersham?” Her long lashes fluttered over green eyes.

“They’re drugs, aren’t they?” He shrugged. “The sergeant said I had some in my urine.”

Dr. Horton wrinkled her nose. “Yes. They’re definitely drugs. In point of fact, they are drugs used in conjunction with hypnosis or general anesthesia.”

“So he drugged me.”

“That’s one theory,” Dr. Horton replied. “Did you know that your wounds appear to be self inflicted?”

“I’m sorry?” the man asked. “How could I have knocked myself out, drugged myself, and then carried myself to an alleyway? That sounds a little weird.”

Dr. Horton folded her hands on top of the table. “In addition to the anesthetic effects, barbiturates also can cause a limited form of amnesia; this is helpful to surgeons who don’t want their patients to remember the last few minutes before they’re fully under.” She gave a little chuckle. “It’s possible that you esca—that is, you walked from your residence to where you came to.”

He slapped the table. “I am John Ambersham. I live in a house in the suburbs with my dog, Caesar. I work as an IT director at a bank. I have a life, damn it. Give me back my life!” His chest heaved with the exertion of his speech.
Dr. Horton regarded him stoically. “Will you please calm down, Mr. Ambersham?” She leaned back in her chair. “I’m trying to help you.” A tap sounded from the door. A harried clerk entered and slid a file on the table underneath Dr. Horton’s elbow. Without looking around, she murmured a thank you.

“What’s that?” He asked.

Dr. Horton cocked her head. “Do you really want to know, Mr. Ambersham?”

“Don’t play games with me,” he replied. “You were obviously expecting that. What is it?”

Carefully, she pulled the folder closer and opened it. One of her eyebrows rose slightly as she read the contents. “We’ve broadened the search for your identity, Mr. Ambersham.”

“Oh?” he replied. “And did you find where I live?”

“In a manner of speaking.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Does the name Henry Woods ring a bell with you?”

“No. Why would it?”

“You see, Mr. Ambersham, your fingerprints match exactly those of a Henry Woods. He escaped from the Maple Lawn Facility for Psychological Disorders early yesterday morning.” She slid the file over to me. “Henry left yesterday wearing a black trench coat that he had stolen.”

He didn’t touch the file. “What was Henry there for?”

“Let’s not discuss that right now.”

“What was Henry there for, Doctor?” Desperation once again crept into his voice as he repeated the question.

She sighed. “Paranoid Schizophrenia and Dissociative Identity Disorder.”

“What’s that last one?”

“It’s doctor jargon for split personalities, Mr. Ambersham.” She reached out and touched his hand. “Can I talk to Henry?”

He jerked his hand away as if he had been bitten. “Doctor, honestly. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m John Ambersham. I’m an IT director at a bank. I have a dog named Caesar and a house in the suburbs.”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to send you back to Maple Lawn, Mr. Ambersham. You were right to seek help.” She stood and moved toward the door.

“I don’t need help. I need to get back home. No one is feeding my dog.” Tears formed at the corner of his eyes. “I just want to go home. I’m not crazy, I promise.”

“No one is crazy in our business, Mr. Ambersham. They’re just sick. We help them get better.”

“I don’t want to get better. I want to go home.” The door shut behind Dr. Horton with a sharp finality.

His wishes didn’t matter. Shortly after the interview with Dr. Chase Horton, John Ambersham was transported to the Maple Lawn Facility for Psychological Disorders. He currently has a private room that looks out into a small garden, limited internet access, and a stuffed, plushy golden retriever that he sleeps with every night.

Occasionally, he will claim that a stranger in a dark trench coat will come by to taunt him about the life he lost. To anyone who will listen, he will claim that the stranger is Henry Woods, who is living his life in the suburbs. Henry has a job as an IT manager at a bank, with a laptop, a cell phone, and a blackberry clipped to his belt. He occasionally plays Frisbee with a dog named Caesar. They somehow traded their lives.

They said it would be therapeutic to write all this down. Putting things into context and perspective is an important part of healing. Dr. Horton tells everyone that detachment is a crucial part of adjusting to reality, but what if, like Einstein said, the frame of reference affects the reality?

What if detachment is just another schism of identity?

This entry was posted on Saturday, April 7th, 2007 at 8:52 pm and is filed under Writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.