…I don’t know who I am.

There’s a giant syringe protruding from my chest. Buttons popped loose from my shirt down to the stomach. Spots of blood stain the white fabric when I pull the needle loose. I can feel every inch of its metallic length withdrawing from my flesh. Blood washes down my chest in a messy trail. I throw the syringe across the room and it shatters. What was in the needle? Who stabbed me with that thing?

I can’t remember who I am. I don’t even know how I got here.

A narrow bathroom stall: light reflects off the tiles in bright points that pierce my fragile eyes. I’m slumped on the toilet with my pants on. The pounding in my head is amplified by the surrounding silence. It seems like a public bathroom. Nothing but dripping water, there’s nobody else around.

I struggle to my feet, listening to the echo of my weak grunts, my footsteps approaching the mirror above the row of sinks. The face staring back at me is weirdly unfamiliar. I look like the sketch of a mug artist, drawn in shades of grey. A pale face that’s gaunt and unshaven, an explosion of scarred and blistered flesh around the right temple. Christ, I’m going bald.

At least I’m respectably dressed. Halfway through buttoning my shirt – blood immediately soaking the front – somebody comes into the bathroom. The man is dressed in a suit, carrying a briefcase. I can hear the bustle of activity outside before the door falls shut behind him. The man stares awkwardly.

‘Nosebleed,’ I tell him.

He looks down at the broken needle on the tiles.

‘Junkies,’ I tell him.

Something tells me to get the fuck out of here. The man smiles politely through the look of unease on his face, edging toward one of the stalls. He goes inside and I hear the bolt slide home. OCCUPIED.

There’s a jacket on the countertop. I presume it belongs to me, putting it on over the bloodstained shirt, doing up the buttons. A perfect fit. There’s a wallet in the front pocket. Expensive leather; three hundred dollars and some credit cards inside. The driver’s license doesn’t resemble the man in the mirror.

‘Joseph Lawrence,’ I read out loud.

I don’t recognise him, but that’s no surprise. This guy Joseph Lawrence could be the one who stuck that needle in my chest, but I wouldn’t know him from the man currently using the bathroom stall.

Leaving the bathroom I’m surprised to find a great open space filled with people and lined with stores. There’s faint music beneath the cacophony of voices. This could almost be a shopping mall, but I see luggage on trolleys and flight attendants in their neat little uniforms. There’s an announcement coming over the loudspeakers while a plane rumbles overhead. So… it’s an airport.

Which airport? What city am I in?

How did I get here? Who am I?

I discover a set of keys in my pocket and a crumpled parking stub with a number printed on the side. I can’t remember what kind of car I drive, but at least I know where it’s parked. I can remember how to drive. I don’t remember where I learned, or what kind of car it was in, or who taught me. I can’t remember my father’s name or the girl I first kissed, but I can still drive.

I know the names of old movies, politicians, historical figures. I know bands and music, summoning tunes in my head. But I don’t remember who I am.

I don’t remember what happened to get me here. The memories of my life have been wiped clean like a chalkboard. I don’t even know where to find the parking lot.

People jostle around me. Another confused tourist in the crowd: that’s me. Ten minutes ago I might have been standing in this exact spot, but I wouldn’t remember that. Nothing comes. I trawl for memories and the murky depths of my brain turn out empty. There’s naught coming to the surface.

I take a seat near the orange juice stand. Gotta figure this out. No rings, no watch. There’s something else in my pocket: another key attached to a little plastic tag. 334B. I check the lockers nearby for a corresponding number. There are hundreds of them. Aha! I find the right one. The key fits in the hole.

Inside the locker there’s a handgun, uncovered and plain as day. It’s just sitting there for the world to see. I quickly shut the door. Why do I have the key to a locker containing a gun? I don’t need a gun. Do I need a gun?

Am I in danger? Could I have known that somebody would stick a needle in my chest and erase all of my memories?

A sensation of déjà vu comes over me. I have no memories to associate this feeling with – but I know what déjà vu is. It’s not unreasonable to assume that I’ve previously stood right here with the same key in my hand. What was I thinking back then? Why did I feel the need to leave a gun at the airport?

I look around, feeling paranoid. Nobody here even seems to care; they obviously didn’t notice the gun. There’s a newsvendor further along. I can read the headlines from here: 12 DEAD IN AIRPORT MASSACRE.

I leave the locker and buy a newspaper with the loose change in my pants. One of the coins strikes me as light and foreign, newly polished. I don’t hand this one over, comparing the date on the coin to the date on the paper. The coin was pressed in 2010. The newspaper says today is October 23^rd, 2009.

2009. What year was I expecting?

The coin – I can’t explain it. 2010? It has to be fake, right?

There are plenty of familiar stories in the news: ceasefires in the Middle East, political scandals, natural disasters and foiled terrorist plots. I feel like I’ve read all of this before now. I’ve been reading it for most of my life.

The newspaper ends up in the trash receptacle.

Around me the airport drones. I follow the signs past ARRIVALS and find EXIT, walking with a noticeable limp. There’s a dull ache in my left ankle that I didn’t notice earlier. Some of these people stare like I’m a hunchback dragging a corpse. The blood on my shirt isn’t showing – I just look awful.

Outside it’s night, the air windless and thick with high temperature. Yellow cabs wait in a line beyond the exit. There’s a roar of traffic from the surrounding freeways, an array of headlights blurring with motion as cars speed along the overpass. The parking lot is laid out underneath, the size of several city blocks, dozens of exit ramps, a maze of vehicles between the pylons. Nothing here is familiar.

It’s gloomy and difficult to read the numbers. After searching a long time for my car it’s a surprise to discover a BMW parked in the numbered slot. Am I the kind of person that drives a BMW? The key fits, so maybe I am.

There’s a parking meter at the head of every slot. I feed it with notes from the wallet of Joseph Lawrence, surprised to find the machine greedily expecting more, more, more. It spits out a receipt for one month’s parking.

I get in the car and smell the stale odour of cigarettes. Do my lungs feel heavy? The ashtray is overflowing and there’s half a pack sitting on the dashboard. There are some maps in the glove compartment, but no form of registration or identification. The car offers no clues to my identity.

It’s clean. The clothes I’m wearing aren’t cheap and they don’t smell like old smoke. There’s a wallet belonging to a man named Joseph Lawrence in my jacket. Hot, drying blood sticks the shirt against my chest.

There are flashing lights and sirens when I turn the key in the ignition.

A moment later I realise that it’s not a fancy car alarm. I’m surrounded by cops wearing helmets and vests, wielding brand-new submachine guns. They’ve been waiting for me in the shadows. Why exactly? I don’t know.

I don’t know who I am.

‘Put your hands on the wheel!’

‘Put your hands on the fucking wheel!’

I put my hands on the wheel.

‘Pop the trunk!’

‘Do it! Pop the trunk now!’

Jesus, do they want my hands on this wheel or not?

I pop the trunk, listening to the latch come undone in the rear. I’m watching in the rear view mirror as two SWAT members move around and slowly raise the lid, staring at whatever’s inside. I can hear them gasping in shock.

‘You sick bastard…’

 

HARTFORD FEDERAL PENITENTIARY is written in big white letters against a blue background on the sign located outside the first chain-link fence. From the back of the check-in van you can’t see this sign. It’s pretty much there for staff, visitors and photographs in government brochures. Most inmates will only ever see it on the way out, though I doubt that many are tempted to look back at this place.

Few men actually make it out of here: a quarter of the inmates are serving life sentences. Over a thousand of them are murderers. Seventeen hundred have committed assault with a deadly weapon.

Some have called this the most frightening place on earth.

Hartford Federal Penitentiary has been operating at over three times its capacity since late in the last century. It is a prison built upon a prison built upon a prison. They continually expand the facility to keep up with the intake of convicts. In some blocks the cells are now stacked ten stories high. In a good week two or three people will die from stabbings. In a bad week the morgue gets overcrowded.

Due to extraneous costs, one out of twelve inmates receives the serious drug treatment that over two-thirds of them actually require. Along with drug problems a quarter of the population suffers some form of mental illness. Most remain untreated – or even undiagnosed – due to understaffed mental-health facilities. This is the criminal justice system. It’s clearly not rehabilitation. Vocational training and education programs are virtually non-existent at Hartford. Even the priests might say that God has abandoned this place.

Half of the few prisoners released will end up back here within two years.

Until recently the penitentiary was run by a government-subsidised privately-owned prison company named Lockdown Operations. Such deals have become common practice with ultramodern prisons. The private sector can operate with more efficiency than a government body while maintaining a lower cost. For example, a correctional officer working for Lockdown Operations would be a non-union worker on a reduced salary with no benefits or pension. The prison is run like any other business: entirely for profit. This means that profits are at their highest when the population is over its peak.

‘Keeping minor drug offenders in the system raises profit margins for shareholders,’ the Angry Young Black Man tells me during our trip up to Hartford. He says, ‘Most of the inmates in GP come from minority groups.’

GP, that’s General Population.

The Angry Young Black Man is shackled across from me in the back of the van. He wears glasses and a goatee. When he raises his voice spittle flies out from his mouth. He says, ‘Recent studies have shown that the same percentage of people from all racial and ethnic backgrounds use drugs. But somebody from a minority group is far more likely to be arrested and charged for such a crime. And a black man is going to be given a sentence twice as long as a white for the same crime.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him.

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat. ‘Isn’t that what you want to hear?’

He scowls and says nothing. We ride the rest of the way up to Hartford in silence, him with a three-year possession charge and me with a life sentence for the murder of a man I’ve never actually met: Joseph Lawrence.

 

In GP inmates are to wake at 0600 hours, dress, make their beds and clean their cells. Those who neglect this duty will miss breakfast. Cell doors are opened twenty-five minutes later and all inmates line quietly outside their cages. A headcount is taken and prisoners are subsequently marched in line to the mess hall. Privileged inmates operate the kitchen, relieved of work detail for the remaining day.

In the mess hall the tables are arranged in long rows. There are eight seats to a table, four on each side, and the prisoners who eat here are lined in accordance with cell numbers. When they’ve finished eating, all inmates are to place their cutlery neatly on the table. When the designated meal time is over the corrections officers count each set of plastic forks and spoons to make sure that none have gone missing. There are a dozen armed guards walking down the aisles, leaning over the prisoners to count their cutlery.

One time a fork went missing. This happened before my tenure at Hartford, but somehow I know the story regardless. A guard placed his hand on the shoulder of the prisoner with the missing fork. He leaned in close, politely asking to see it. The prisoner didn’t turn at first, but when he did it came out swiftly, one arm upraised. The guard saw the fork. And then it was stuck firmly in his neck, violently twisted, and then he was gagging on his own blood, too shocked to do anything else but reach up and try to pull it out.

The prisoner’s name was William Wilson. Cell number 55D. Prisoner number 287119. Convicted for armed robbery and attempted murder, serving ten to fifteen years. The nameless guard died in the infirmary before he could be transferred to a proper hospital. The other guards clubbed Wilson so hard that he suffered a mild form of retardation and got shipped over to county lock-up. A security videotape of the guards beating the prisoner made it to somebody in a state department. It was decided they had acted too harshly.

Lockdown Operations’ contract for running the prison was not renewed.

At the conclusion of breakfast inmates are to line up for their work detail. Those inmates with no work detail will be returned to their cells. Some have the privilege of old televisions. When a riot starts the prisoners who have already been returned to their cells will be subject to automatic lockdown.

Meals are hand-delivered to the prisoners in Protective Custody, Maximum Security, Solitary Confinement and the Hole. Those on the PC block have access to the gymnasium at differing hours to Gen Pop. Protective Custody is where you go when the boys in GP are a danger to your long-term health. The inmates on the PC block might be guilty of killing a black kid, or maybe they’re a paedophile, or a police informant, or maybe they’re an actor or a rock star who got busted on a possession rap one too many time.

The doors in GP are computer-operated from the guard stations. In PC, Maximum, Solitary and the Hole, individual cells are manually locked and unlocked. The same goes for the mess hall, the gymnasium and the machine shop. Access between each block is barred with two gates. In newer sections of the prison these hallways are controlled electronically, but others remain old-school.

You can see where new additions branch off from the original structure. They have different paintjobs and noticeably less scuffs on the cold, hard floor. The construction is never-ending at Hartford. On the first day I see more contractors in white overalls than I see guards. I study these transitory men while I’m waiting at check-in for somebody to consult with the Warden and clear up the confusion about where to place me.

The identification on my uniform is 64018. I’ve been reduced to a mere number. That’s my new identity. I can’t even remember the previous one.

 

Day one some guy hits me in the face.

He just walks right up with this smug grin on his unsightly mug and says, ‘You don’t look so tough.’

Obviously this guy has followed my appearances in the media. He’s flanked by two goons on either side, their shirtsleeves torn to display gang tattoos across their arms. Their deference suggests the guy in the middle is somebody of importance here at Hartford. He carries himself with earned authority.

I look him square in the eyes, saying nothing.

This guy looks from one goon to the other and says, ‘The papers are calling him The Amnesiac. We better give him a welcome he won’t forget, huh?’

That’s when he punches me in the face. This guy is big, but I know I’ve suffered worse – even though I can’t remember the specific occasions.

He doesn’t get the chance for a second punch.

I catch his wrist with one hand and snap the bone before ramming a blow into his nose with my free hand. The guy is screaming, bubbles of blood popping between his shattered nostrils. I jerk the broken arm behind his back and push him to the floor with one foot (clad in a flimsy prison-issue slipper).

I don’t know who I am – but I’m obviously a fighter.

The goons on either side move in, wrestling me away. Two against one is no fair fight, but I manage to chop one of them in the throat with the flat of my hand. I must have ninja training. I can hear him gagging as the other goon rams my head into the wall. It cracks my skull and I see violent stars.

The guards move in and break up the fracas.

Turns out I broke one man’s windpipe, another’s wrist and nose. The third guy came away unharmed, but he went to the Hole while the rest of us were taken to the infirmary and strapped against our cots for individual safety.

The Hole is exactly what it sounds like: bare walls, no furnishings, just a hole in the floor that you’re supposed to shit and piss into. But it’s not the highest level of punishment here at Hartford. They’re inventive bastards.

Four stitches in my head, some bruising and concussion. Like I said: I’ve had worse. The doctor is at my side a total of four minutes. He moves on to other sick convicts, some of them recovering from severe injuries. Beds are lined underneath the barred windows, white sheets spotted with blood.

The two men I’ve hurt are kept overnight.

I’m discharged from the infirmary and taken to meet the Warden. Two guards escort me through the halls on either side. I’m chained at the wrists and ankles, hands cuffed behind my back. You try walking like that.

The guards march me through the door to the warden’s office. It’s the kind of room you’d expect: bookshelf and diplomas on the walls, barred window overlooking the yard, a wide oak desk as the centrepiece. An older bald man is seated before me, wearing his spectacles and looking at my file on the desk.

The Warden and I are twins: they already shaved my head as part of the delousing process. The scarring and burns on my face stand out more this way. People are pretty much forced to stare. I hate when people stare.

The Warden is staring. He leaves my file open on the desk and motions to the empty chair on my side. ‘Sit down, 64018.’

I tell him, ‘It’s a little hard to sit with these hands behind my back, boss.’

He says, ‘You’ll just have to lean forward then, 64018.’

I give that a try.

The guards stand rigid beside the door. The Warden tells them, ‘You can wait outside. I’ll call if you’re needed.’

The guards leave. I keep my head bowed and keep the Warden staring at my bald scalp. Eventually he says, ‘Look at me, 64018.’

He’s staring again, at the scar. He asks, ‘How’d you get that? Not the stitches, I mean. The scarring there on your temple.’

‘I don’t remember, boss.’

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘The Amnesiac. You asked for clemency because you can’t even remember the crimes you’ve committed. There’s no point keeping up this act now that you’ve been convicted, is there?’

‘It’s no act, boss.’

‘You really don’t remember what you did to that poor man?’

‘I can’t even say that I done it, boss.’

The Warden’s stare suggests that he doesn’t give a fuck. ‘Either way we’re stuck with each other. I don’t like long-term problems, 64018. You’re starting to resemble one after only six hours. I hear that you assaulted several other inmates in General Population this morning. One of them was Wade Jenkins, a man who’s known to run G Block. Is there a history between the two of you?’

‘I never met the man before – least so far as I can recall.’

‘Yet my guards say that you threw the first punch.’

That probably means they’re easy to bribe, though I don’t say as much to the Warden. He’s looking at me for some kind of explanation, but I have little to offer him. All I say is: ‘He was discourteous toward me.’

‘Is that so?’

‘It is, sir.’

‘They’re suggesting to me, 64018, that you’re a troublemaker.’

‘Is that so?’

‘It is. And I’m inclined to agree. That’s why I have decided to place you in solitary confinement for the time being. For the protection of other inmates, and ultimately for your own.’

‘Oh, right.’ I shrug. ‘Whatever you have to do.’

‘This doesn’t concern you?’

Another shrug, chains rattling lightly. ‘Not really, no. You can’t do much worse to me. It’s not like you can extend a life sentence.’

‘We could keep you in solitary for the duration. Take away any privileges.’

‘That doesn’t mean a whole lot to me, sir.’

‘We’ll see how much it means after a month, 64018.’

 

So here I am in Solitary Confinement a month later.

It’s a narrow room, no window. The ceiling is high above. There’s a single bulb that never shuts off glowing brightly behind a grate up there. For hours on end I watch the motes of dust that dance like tiny life forms in my barren cell. There’s a bunk, a toilet, a basin, a drainage pipe in the floor, a narrow vent and the door. All of these are metallic and cold. It gets awful cold down here.

There isn’t much to do in these confines but listen as you draw in deep trembling breaths. You shiver and try to stay warm, huddled on the bunk and wondering if the walls are closing in on you. There are plenty of cockroaches down here. You can hear their tiny legs scraping against the concrete walls, listening to their wings buzz as their antennae twitch from side to side. They are the only company in here – apart from the voice in your head. You lay with the sheets pulled up high, smothering yourself, hoping that the bugs don’t crawl into your ear and become another voice, whispering and taunting.

When you’re alone you have nothing but memories, haunted by things that were and things that might have been in another lifetime. Contemplating the wrong paths taken and the inevitability of your final destination.

Except I have no memories. I cannot imagine anything beyond this.

And I thought boredom was the enemy in general prison life. Here, in the isolation, it’s even worse. I understand now how putting a man in the box can be such torture. Boredom and monotony are enemies, but the idea behind solitary confinement is that your mind is truly your own worst enemy.

You replay things inside your head, go over memories, conversations, situations … and eventually you wonder if any of that actually happened. You begin to question what was real or what your mind just perverted out of another reality. You become entirely unsure of everything in your head. You talk to yourself in whispers just for some assurance that you still have a voice in here. But then you wonder if that voice is even your own. Who’s talking to me? Why did they say that? Am I going mad in here? Am I already mad?

You remember seeing a catfish washed up on the shore of a river once, a long time ago. It was big and ugly and stinking under the heat of the midday sun. Yet it was somehow still alive, drawing slow breath. And you perceive this memory as being real, but you’re actually not sure if you read it in a book somewhere or saw it on the television. It gets so hard when you don’t even trust your own memories anymore. It’s even harder when you have none.

I can’t remember who I was before this happened.

 

It’s difficult keeping track of time when all you have is these bland cell walls and the endless, buzzing light. Every minute feels like an eternity. I might be a little crazy now, but when I wake up I’ve started hearing things. Somewhere out there in the hall, beyond the locked door, there’s a dull sound of grating metal. And maybe I hear approaching footsteps. And murmured voices.

But I could be wrong.

No, no.

There’s somebody at the door. I’m thinking it’s about fucking time because I’m starving here. I’m stumbling to my feet so I can grab at the styrofoam tray when they slide it through the door. But there’s no food coming just yet.

It’s only temporary respite. After this month of solitary confinement I’m taken for a psychiatric evaluation. Some people go mad down here. I listen to them howling, echoing off the walls. Their voices haunt these corridors.

The doctor says, ‘I apologise for the shackles.’

I shrug, rattling my chains. ‘It’s part and parcel, Doc.’

‘I read about you in the papers,’ he says, reclining in his chair. ‘Your case is very interesting for a man in my field.’

‘Cool.’

‘I’d like to talk about the murder.’

‘Everything about the case I learned at the trial. It should be on file.’

‘I’d like to hear you talk about it.’

‘I don’t remember it.’

The Doc frowns. He stands. He says, ‘I’d like you to take a walk with me, if you will.’

I remain sitting. ‘Where we going?’

‘I’d like to take you on a little tour of the facility. Come.’

The two guards follow at a distance. The Doc slows his pace in order for my shackled legs to keep up. He has the access key to the elevator, which saves the guards carrying me down the stairs. We descend to B1. There’s no natural light at this depth of the facility. The walls are painted a dull green. It smells like a hospital but I’ve seen the infirmary and this is something different.

They conduct shock therapy in the basement.

I watch from a viewing window as the patient on display is strapped into a chair, fastened at the wrists and ankles. They use old-fashion leather belts. There’s another belt strapped across his forehead, binding him to the headboard. The pressure tugs his eyes wide open. Beads of sweat drip over the belt and into his eyes. They clamp his tongue. They fasten electrodes to his temples. They flick the switch. He convulses. The lights in the hall flicker.

The Doc watches it all without emotion. He says, ‘The human rights campaigners don’t know about this part of the facility. Most who find out about this place will leave with nothing but the most basic memories.’

In the room next door they perform lobotomies.

The patient is strapped to a table. They fasten him about the neck, chest and ankles. They use belts again. There’s a belt strapped over his forehead, binding him to the headboard. His eyes are pinned open. He’s conscious under only a mild dose of anaesthetic. He can see the icepick coming down. It’s inserted beneath the left eyelid and over the globe of his terrified eye. He tries to blink but the lid is obstructed. It’s the most awful thing I’ve ever seen.

I want to turn away but I can show no sign of weakness.

The Doc has seen this all before, completely unfazed by the horror. They gently tap the icepick with a hammer. The icepick penetrates the layer of bone above the eye. They draw the icepick back and forth over the frontal lobe. The patient passes out during the procedure. The orderlies unstrap him, hauling the lifeless form off the table. They open the door and drag him past us into the hall, a thin line of drool hanging from the lobotomised patient’s lip.

I stand outside the open doorway and face the Doc. ‘Why’d you bring me down here?’

The Doc says, ‘To educate you. There are worse things that can happen to a prisoner if you don’t tow the line in this place.’

In the lobotomy room the operating doctor sighs. He wipes blood from the icepick. He removes his gloves. He wipes his hands on his coat. The assistant hands him a towel. The assistant says, ‘Thirty-five seconds. That has to be some kind of record.’

The lights in the hall flicker again.

I ask the Doc, ‘Didn’t they outlaw lobotomy?’

He dismisses the question with a wave of his hand. ‘There was a recent bill passed, though I don’t believe it’s been given much publicity.’

In the room across the hall an autopsy has been prepped. I stare through the viewing window and wonder if this is a two-way mirror. The administering doctor has entered but pays us no attention outside. He straightens his facemask. He pulls on a new pair of gloves. He stares at the body.

The Doc says, ‘It isn’t necessary we watch this one.’

He tries to lead me away down the hall. I resist his grip on my arm. The guards move in. I keep staring at the autopsy.

The assistant takes photographs of the wounds with a Polaroid camera. He pins them to a board on the wall. The assistant takes measurements of the wounds. They’re stab wounds. Five punctures in quick succession; I can tell even from here. The wounds are in all of the right places for an efficient kill.

The guards have me gripped under the arms.

The Doc says, ‘Let him go. He can watch if he likes.’

Finally I turn away and meet the Doc’s eye.

‘That man was knifed in the yard this morning,’ he tells me. ‘We do not have the inmate responsible for the crime. And if past experience is anything to judge by, we’ll probably never find the man who did this, either.’

I say nothing.

The Doc says, ‘There’s something else I’d like to show you. We’re currently trialling a new pharmaceutical treatment aimed at rehabilitating violent offenders.’

‘Rehabilitating them with drugs?’

‘The chemical affects their memories. We’ve been testing on subjects in Maximum Security.’

The Doc leads me back to the elevator and we descend to B2. He continues: ‘The drug puts the subject in a trance-like state. Mentally it takes them back to the moment of their crimes – like a kind of non-physical time travel – essentially allowing them to relive the experience, but with the knowledge of their present selves intact. They can choose to re-offend, or possibly learn from their experience and choose not to commit the crimes all over again. We can monitor their cerebral cortex through state-of-the-art technologies, processing their varied reactions within these new simulated memories.’

‘This is science-fiction.’

‘It’s a new reality,’ the Doc says.

The doors slide open. This here is serious Silence of the Lambs shit. If I thought I’d seen the bowels of this facility before, the sight of Maximum Security corrects me. We’re so deep I can feel the pressure on my ears. There are rats here, more cockroaches emerging between the fissures. The walls are green with slime and mildew. I imagine there are sewer lines running alongside us here, or right beneath our feet. I can almost smell it, but maybe that’s just the stench of isolated men shitting in their own deranged pants.

These halls have gone long without the grace of natural light.

Everything here is securely bolted. Thick metal gates seem to block the halls every twenty-five feet. The hallway lights can never die. They are dim, firmly secured in the ceiling, covered by grates. The cells are evenly spaced and line one wall, facing the opposite wall of bland mossy brick. As it is, the inmates cannot see one another but they can verbally communicate. In their time here these men have not once left their cells without full restraints. There is good reason for this. We aren’t dealing with human beings anymore, not when we’ve come this deep. They are demons dwelling in these cells.

‘These prisoners are beyond rehabilitation,’ the Doc tells me. ‘Presented with a choice to change the sins of their pasts, none have taken that option. In fact, some have opted to worsen the nature of their crimes. It isn’t real, of course, but within their minds it might as well be. These are killers without remorse. Our experiments have, unfortunately, furthered the delusions of some. A few more have never returned from the trance. This, I believe, is entirely voluntary on their part. They have retreated from this prison into their own memories; a fantasy world concocted entirely within their own heads.’

I look into the first cell. Even though it’s dark I see the man sitting there rigidly on the bunk against the far wall. He doesn’t move, just staring at us, and I wonder if he even knows what’s happening.

‘What does any of this have to do with me?’

‘Your memory problem, ah, presents us with a unique… condition… for the experiment.’

‘I’m not a lab rat, Doc.’

The occupant of the second cell reaches between the bars. He’s speaking in a low hurried tone, and he’s saying, ‘Hey, hey you, over here, hey, take me back. C’mon, just send me back one more time!’

We ignore him.

The Doc turns to me. ‘You can either play the game or go back to solitary, 64018.’

Without a lifetime of memories it’s easy to consider the cold, the isolation, the false memories and the cloud hanging over my past.

‘How about we flip a coin and decide?’

 

The way they’ve strapped me against the operating table resembles Christ’s pose on the cross. I’m shirtless and squinting under the bright lab lights. There are several electrodes attached to the contours of my skull, tiny barbs under my flesh, tubes and wires snaking away like I’m now part-machine.

The Amnesiac Machine.

Computers monitor my brainwaves and vital signs, manned by nameless operators. I can hear the constant beep that signals my heartbeat. It’s a nice reminder that I’m still alive despite this fresh hell.

‘Doc?’

‘Yes, 64018.’

‘You still got that lucky coin?’

‘I do.’

‘Can I have it?’

‘It’s not like you can take it with you, 64018.’

‘I know, but it just feels… right.’

‘Whatever placates you,’ the Doc says.

The sensation of his warm hand slips into the pocket of my prison slacks. I can feel the slight weight of the coin when his fingers recede.

The Doc leans in above me. The tip of the needle catches the light. ‘This might sting just a little bit…’

 

I’m not sure… who I am.

There’s a huge syringe protruding from my chest. The buttons of my shirt have been undone down to the stomach. Spots of blood stain the white fabric when I yank the needle free. I can feel every inch of its metallic length sliding out from my flesh. Blood runs down my chest in muddled trails. I throw the syringe across the room. It shatters. What was in that thing? Who stabbed me with a needle?

I can’t remember how I even got here, but it feels strange to be… free. That doesn’t even make sense to me. There are marks on both wrists like I’ve been shackled. Was I a prisoner? How did I escape?

I stumble from the bathroom stall, finding an empty public restroom. I assess myself in the mirror above the row of sinks. The face staring back at me is like a mugshot I remember from the news. This unfamiliar man resembles a wartime refugee, gaunt yellow skin, unshaven. Scarred and blistered flesh explodes around my right temple. It’s accentuated by the fact that I’m completely, thuggishly bald.

At least I’m respectably dressed. There’s a nice jacket folded on the countertop. I presume it either belongs to me or was left behind for this purpose, so I put it on over the bloodstained shirt, doing up the buttons. There’s a leather wallet in the front pocket. Three hundred dollars and some credit cards inside. The driver’s license doesn’t resemble the man in the mirror. It’s not me.

‘Joseph Lawrence,’ I read out loud. ‘Where do I know you from, Joseph Lawrence?’

The echo of my words is the closest I get to an answer.

Leaving the bathroom I bump into a familiar-looking man dressed in a suit. This guy drops his briefcase, which comes open when it clatters to the floor, spilling hundreds of photographic enlargements across the tiles. When I bend over to pick them up I notice these are graphic crime scene images: an unidentifiable body inside the trunk of a car, wrapped in plastic smeared with blood.

When I look up the man in the suit is running away. The constant bustle of this airport swallows him whole. Nobody cares about the violent photos scattered on the floor. I choose to leave them behind.

Fingers trace newly-discovered objects in the various pockets of my pants. I take a seat near the orange juice stand and empty these unfamiliar contents upon the table in front of me. Car keys, a wrinkled parking stub, loose change, another key attached to a little plastic tag that reads 334B.

The nearby lockers have a corresponding number. The key fits the lock. The jacket I found in the bathroom was exactly my size, too. It’s like this entire situation has been somehow preordained.

I hesitate before dragging the locker open. Inside, sitting on the thin metallic shelf, I can see a handgun plain as day. An M9 9mm Beretta pistol. I have no idea where this knowledge of firearms comes from, though.

A sensation of déjà vu washes over me. I have no memories to associate the feeling with – but I know déjà vu. It’s not unreasonable to assume that I’ve previously stood right here with this same key in my hand. What was I thinking back then? Why did I feel the need to leave a gun at the airport?

I furtively look around the crowd, suffering a stab of paranoia. A woman on a payphone seems to be staring directly at me. She abruptly looks away. There’s a big man glancing my way over the top of his newspaper. I can read the headline from here: GUNMAN KILLED IN AIRPORT MASSACRE.

I look at the Beretta. Maybe I need this gun, I don’t know. There’s nothing I can be certain about anymore. I feel violated in the most unsettling way.

The gun feels cold beneath my outstretched palm.

‘Stop!’ the payphone woman screams.

She’s left the phone swinging by the cord. People turn and stare at her. The big man’s newspaper flutters in the air. He’s drawing a gun from inside his jacket. The police badge sparkles on his belt.

‘Freeze!’ the big man shouts.

I take the icy metal in my hand before I can even think twice about holding a gun while I’m surrounded by police officers. They’ve obviously been following me, watching my every move and waiting. Why? I have no idea.

People are screaming and running for cover. The cops – both uniformed and undercover – are shouting conflicting orders. Without any thought I’ve landed myself in a situation I can’t escape from.

Escape…

Something – some dim spark of memory flaring deep within my skull – tells me that I really don’t want to end up in prison. No, sir.  And so I put the gun to my head, settling the muzzle against the scar on my temple. And I pull the –

 

There is no room for identity between the reinforced walls of Hartford Penitentiary. These days I have been reduced to a mere number. Prisoner #64018. Just another cog in the system. I can’t remember who I used to be.

I was given a chance to avoid serving time back at the trial. There was plenty of coverage on the news channels and I even watched it from my holding cell some nights. At that stage a conviction was unavoidable unless I gave evidence indicting my employers on the supposed ‘contract’ killing. But I have only the prosecution’s word that I was paid to kill a man I can’t actually remember killing. The evidence brought forth at trial was pretty convincing. In the end the prosecution made me an offer better than the devil’s, but I couldn’t even provide what they’d asked for if I’d wanted to. I can’t remember…

Anything.

I have no choice but to keep my mouth shut and do the time that I’ve allegedly earned. There are no memories of my life outside this endless nightmare. I go through the motions: delousing, cavities probed, putting on the orange jumpsuit. Shackled at my feet and wrists I’m led through the facility.

The combined voices of a thousand caged men echo through the halls in a horrendous cacophony. It sounds like cries from beyond the grave.

The Warden lives high atop this tower of the damned. His office belongs to a king: bookshelves, diplomas and portraits on the walls, a window surveying the kingdom far below, fine rug across the floor, a spotless great oak desk spread out before his throne.

He’s standing in the middle of the room waiting to meet me. In the Warden’s presence I keep my head bowed, leaving him to stare at his reflection in my bald scalp.

I can’t remember what my father looks like. This unfamiliar man gives me that paternal vibe – only it’s not the good kind. Guess I’ve never known the experience of having a loving authority figure, huh?

‘Lift your head,’ he orders, looking appreciatively at the scar. ‘How’d you get this? These burns here on the temple.’ Like a fetishist he runs two fingers across the scar tissue on my head.

I say, ‘I’m sure it specifies in my file, boss.’

The Warden grins. His teeth seem lopsided. ‘But I’d prefer you told me, 64018. An informal getting-to-know-you chit-chat, if you’d entertain.’

‘Suppose you know I can’t remember much of it, boss.’

‘I read your file. I want to hear it, prisoner. Tell me what you did to yourself.’

I tell him, ‘It’s from muzzle flash, sir.’

He gives a curt nod. ‘Gunshot wound to the right temple. Self-inflicted. They tell me there’s a bullet lodged in your brain.’

‘So say the doctors, boss.’

The police officers wouldn’t have hesitated to gun me down right there if I’d made even the slightest move toward them. I guess I’m not the kind of man who’d take out a bunch of cops along with me. So I turned the gun on myself instead, putting a bullet in my brain.

‘Couldn’t operate to get it out. Can’t be removed without killing you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Can’t remember a thing apart from what you been told, eh?’

‘Pretty much, boss.’

‘But the bullet will kill you eventually.’

‘So I been told. Like lead poisoning, I guess.’

The Warden laughs and clutches his belly under his starched white shirt. He moves around behind the desk, staring at his polished shoes. ‘Lead poisoning. I like that. Do you want to die, 64018?’

‘Wanna see me executed, boss?’

He reclines in his throne, motioning for the guards on either side of me. The smile on his face is like that of a demon’s living in the skin of a man. ‘I’ll drive you mad before I finally kill you, son.’

 

The inmate in the cell across from mine hanged himself with a bed sheet the previous night.

The Doc asks how I feel about this.

‘It’s a sign of weakness. I guess he cracked.’

‘Cracked?’

‘Killed himself.’

‘You see that as a sign of weakness?’

‘Thinking about how I shot myself in the head, Doc?’

He’s staring at my face, at the scar tissue that ripples across the flesh of my temple. Picturing the bullet lodged somewhere inside my brain.

‘Did you crack when they had you surrounded?’ he asks.

I shrug. ‘Guess it seemed like the only chance I had of escaping.’

‘You should have tried running.’

‘I’ll remember that next time.’

The Doc smiles benevolently. ‘Yes, do. I’d like you to take a walk with me, if you will.’

I remain sitting. ‘Where would we be going?’

‘The basement. For one more chance, 64018.’

He motions for the two guards, who each produce a key: one man for the ankles and the other for the wrists. The shackles fall away from my limbs. Free of weight. I can remember freedom. The Doc dismisses the guards, waiting until they’re gone. He has the access key to the secret elevator. We descend to B3.

‘Some people will do anything to escape the inevitable madness of imprisonment,’ the Doc explains as we descend to the bowels of the facility. ‘Do you understand, 64018? You can’t escape, but you can always run from this insanity. I’m taking a big chance on you this time, so remember my advice and run.’

‘Run,’ I repeat.

‘Here,’ he says, urgently pressing something into my hand. ‘Keep this in your pocket. For later, understand?’

I don’t understand but I put the object in my pocket without looking. The elevator comes to a jolting stop around us. The doors slide open and I’m hit with a bright white light and then I – I…

I can’t remember… who I am.

There’s a syringe planted like a flag in my chest. I pull it out and drop it in the toilet, buttoning my shirt. Blood soaks the fabric across my chest. I don’t remember who I am, who stabbed me…

I can’t remember how I even got here, but it feels strange to be… free.

That doesn’t even make sense… to me. There are marks on both wrists like I’ve been shackled. Was I a prisoner? How did I escape?

I stumble from the bathroom stall, finding an empty public restroom. I assess myself in the mirror above the row of sinks. The face staring back at me is like a mugshot I remember from the news. The scar on the side of my face is glowing and white. I might have been poisoned… I can’t even…

There’s a jacket on the countertop. Does it belong to me? I empty the pockets, turning out my pants and spreading everything across the counter. These are the objects that define a man’s identity: car keys, a nice wallet, a wrinkled parking stub, loose change, another key attached to a little plastic tag, a passport and a one-way ticket to Panama.

The name on the ticket is Joseph Lawrence.

‘Run,’ I repeat.

I put on the jacket. It fits like I was born to wear it. I take the ticket and the passport, leaving everything else behind. The airport is waiting for me outside, a gateway to a hundred different worlds.

Passing through the metal detectors I set off the alarm. I wait patiently for the guard to scan me with the wand. It goes off when he moves it around my skull.

‘Metal plate?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘From the war.’

He waves me through to the flight.

I’m greeted by an attractive stewardess.

I have no baggage and I can get comfortably seated right away, reclining in first class, closing my eyes to dream of the future.

Dreaming of freedom.

This entry was posted on Thursday, October 1st, 2009 at 3:03 pm and is filed under Short Stories. 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.