Amnesiac 

I will always remember how cold that parking lot was. And how the eyes of every customer in the diner turned towards me as soon as I stepped in. How empty all my pockets were on every piece of clothing I wore. How the doctors in the hospital stared at me after finding out that I had no ID or telephone number, not even fingerprint matches or any traces that I have ever existed. I couldn’t stand that place — the way the nurses looked at me with a mixture of sadness and fear, how they would poke and prod me and send me through tests just to leave me on my own for what felt like endless hours. How they sent in scientists from ‘top schools’ only to ask me pointless questions and write things down on notepads. How whenever they spoke about me they used the word “Amnesiac.”

It only took the wooden plank behind the parking lot to smash open the vending machine. It wasn’t a lot of money, but I believed it was enough to get me on my feet. Since then, every motel clerk has always said the same thing: “I’m gonna need to see some ID.” A thorough explanation of my situation risks sending me back to the hospital. So it’s been eating from convenience stores and sleeping on park benches for a while. The local wanderers, homeless people and vagrants seem crazy, but unlike me, they always have a story to tell.

I’m running low on cash and the nights seem to be getting colder and colder, and every once in a while I flip through a magazine to look for a new name or stare in the reflection of a store window and try to get a sense of who I may have been.