It was a quiet evening yet again for the city of Davenport. The city so quiet that not even the chirping of the cricket's forewings could be heard. No one dared to pass by the taunting silence that filled the air. Streetlamps barely lit the pavements that helped the resident hoodlums to do their nightly duty of preying their prospects. Not even a single car came passing by the ghost town that has become of Parker Street.

   It was so quiet that I  could hear my heart pounding. It felt like that the pounding of my heart made enough noise that everybody in Parker Street could hear it. I wiped off the moist that blocked the view from my window – though there wasn’t anything to be seen outside. But I kept my hope alive that in a minute or so there will come a passing car.

  There’s only so much energy a man can exhaust trying to rack his brain. But no matter how much I jog my memories, nothing would come out. All the basic information about myself and all the facts about anything or anyone is nothing but a blur to me. The nurse kept me calling Mr. Haussen. That must be my last name – or first. I don’t know. I didn’t bother asking her about myself for I was weak and sleepy from all the sedatives she gave me. I don’t know what those are for but I liked the feeling it gave me. I felt like I was floating in midair when in reality I was sinking through the depths of hell.

  I kept staring out the window even though I came to realize that there is nothing to be seen. But my eyes were popped wide open looking for something that isn’t out there. Maybe something intangible like my memory. Sitting confined in a hospital sure provokes boredom. Now, I look somewhat like a voyeur staring outside my fogged window.

  The doctor said that I’m suffering from post-traumatic amnesia. That all my memories from the past and short-term ones have all escaped my brain. Despite my horrible condition, he was bit proud to announce that my condition could be permanent, that all the memories that have been lost can never be retrieved again. I wanted to cry but my emotions have also been lost together with the memories. Or at least that’s what I think.

  Doctor Murray – that’s how he introduced himself – gave me the terrible cause of my amnesia. He said in confidence that I was bludgeoned on the head but luckily it wasn’t hard enough to damage the integral parts of my brain, only the one that used to hold my memories. Someone out there probably wants to kill me. But why didn’t he bludgeon me a second time to ensure I was really dead? Why did he leave me with a soft blow and amnesia? Why not leave me completely dead? I have nothing to live for anyway.

  Doctor Murray told me I am a prominent man in Davenport. But if it so, how come no one has come to visit me? Not even my Mum. I wondered if I have a wife or friends or kids for that matter. These were some of the questions that loomed in my head. Mulling over these questions hurt more than the fact that I was hit on the head.

  I wanted to wipe the tears that trailed down my eyes but I left it as is in order to find out if my tearducts have been damaged in the process too. Luckily it wasn’t. I also pinched my arm to check if my sensory motors have also been damaged. Ouch! It’s still okay. Erectile dysfunction! Holy crap! I reached my trousers and lowered it a little bit. I tried to think of something arousing while trying to yank it. It started to erect. Whew. Then I bacame aware that Doctor Murray was watching me all the while. What a bastard! He should have shown some decency of turning his back on me, or better yet leave the room. But maybe it’s also a part of his job to check and see all of my body parts are still in good condition.

  “I guess all of your sensory motors have not been affected.” Doctor Murray said with much delight. “No worries! With all the technological advancement maybe we could bring all your memories back, Sir Harry Haussen.

  The word ‘maybe’ took precedence over the titular word ‘Sir’ but the latter penetrated much harder than the other. I bore the title Sir. Sir Harry Haussen. That’s my name. It sounded like a character from Charles Dickens' novels. Though I’m not sure who Dickens is. I just heard the nurse that my name sounded so. Who cares about Dickens? He must be dead by now. I wonder what kind of novels he made that made him popular. I should borrow a novel or two of his in the Hospital Library to learn a little or so about him.

 They gave me yet another sedative. I tried to battle the wooziness but I was too weak to do so. Too queasy to continue. I need to sleep.

II

I have become monomaniacal about retrieving all my memories. The past, the present, and the memories yet to come. I contemplated as to what my childhood was like. Did I come from a well-off family or from an average working class one? Surely, someone must know.

 Mornings were much different than that of the nights. People were out and about doing their daily tasks. Children played their hopscotch by the pavement. The resounding tweets of the morning birds livened the day. And the din from the construction nearby added to the noisy picture of morning in Parker Street. Ironically, I preferred staring out the window at night than in the mornings. Something about the night makes me feel calm. It maybe the silence and the serenity of the night that summons me to look out the window. It's as if it wanted to show me something. But there was none. Nothing to be seen. At least for now.

 I asked my nurse to grab me a copy of a Charles Dickens novel. She recommended I get Great Expectations for it is her most favorite of all his works. I complied.

 I stared at the wall clock and it's already half past 10 in the morning. It's been 30 minutes since I asked the nurse to get me that book. I'm so eager to read it. This is the first time I'm going to read a novel since I've forgotten the novels I've probably read. How long does it take for one to get a book in the library. Surely all the books are arranged in Dewey Decimal and alphabetized. I would assume she's obtuse if she can't find it in another 10 minutes. I'm so bored!

 Knocks came tapping on my door and after the fourth knock, the door opened. She came in with the book wrapped around her long arms and placed it down on my desk. But it wasn't just one book, there was another. I queried as to why she brought me two when I ordered only one. She then flipped the page of the one I didn't ask for and said that this is what she grew up reading. She then gave it to me to read its title. Jane Eyre.

 I didn't know how the author's name was pronounce. Bront. There were two dots atop the letter 'e' that signified it has an accent. But I repeated in my mind the pronunciation Bront even though it is not how it is pronuonced.

 "Bron-tee. That's how it is pronounced." Before I repeated my own pronunciation of the author's name a fifth time she interjected on its real pronunciation.

 "Ah. So, what must I read first?" I was ready to read both the books at a time. I was intrigued enough that the nurse had went to the trouble of picking another book for me to read because it held a special place in her heart. She wanted to share a piece of her to me. I liked that. I felt wanted since I was confined in this God-damn hospital. Though I don't know how long I've been here.

 "Try to read first Great Expectations. You could read the other one last so that you will remember me when you're released." She believes that I can go home by the time I'm done reading the Dickens. But I don't know how fast I can read, let alone if I could understand all the words for my vocabulary might have been reset, too.

 "This Jane book must surely mean a lot to you." I continued by reading an excerpt. It begins: "There was no possibility of taking a walk that day."

 Svetlana smiled.

(to be continued.. i'm torn between writing this story, watching Aussie Open, studying, and all the shenanigans I'm entitled to do. so bear with me! thank you!)