The first thing he knows is white. A pure, blinding flash of nothing which temporarily burns itself into his retinas and leaves him choking for air in cold shock.

Or maybe it’s just the natural effect of having several tubes stuck into his wrists, not to mention a ventilator in his lungs, stuffing air down his windpipe, keeping him barely alive.

The doctors say he shouldn’t be alive. They hum and haw over his bed, tap miniature hammers into the soles of his feet for him to jerk and kick away from. They clip all sorts of different-coloured sheets of paper at the foot of his bed to track their records cleanly, even though there aren’t any to record. It’s simple, right in front of them, clear as day, but they avoid the truth like the plague.

It’s simple; He’s an unexplained miracle.

He doesn’t feel like one, though.  In fact, he feels more like trash when his nurse hands him a set of clothing and starts packing his things, chattering away non-stop. One by one, little by little, every essence of him is peeled away from the hospital room until all that’s left is the generic white, once again. She flattens the bed covers and smiles brightly at him one more before patting him on the shoulder gently. Her way of an unspoken wish of luck for him.

All he can do is to stare mournfully down at his clothes and wish he could just remember his name.

***