Published: 2025-11-08

I saw light. White fluorescent light spreading across the equally white ceiling. I couldn’t hear much, probably due to the clot of dried blood in my right ear, or my continuous shifting in and out of consciousness. I tried to raise my head, but I couldn’t; in fact, my whole body was immobilized.

Two amorphous creatures in front of me kept moving. They had big heads and hands, and touched me in the chest, head, and face; I felt as if aliens were probing poor little me. Their voices would go from deep to squeaky, sometimes frightening me, others amusing me; I might have even laughed a couple of times. Their constant movement hid and revealed the light over my head; I thought I would suffer a seizure.

Then darkness.

I opened my eyes, the light shone on me; I felt like an egg in an incubator. My right arm was asleep, and a needle was connected to my veins; I followed the thin transparent tube with my eyes to the metal pole next to my bed, it led me to a bag of intravenous fluid, which meant I was in a hospital. I felt proud of my detective skills for a moment, but to be fair, the big red “Emergency Room” sign I could see in the distance gave the answer away.

The thin curtain giving me a false sense of privacy made way for a young man to enter. Tall, black, with a mustache that reminded me of the porn-stars of the 80s, wearing an off-the-rack gray suit; I smiled at the thought of someone going to town with one of his VHS movies. He smiled back, probably thinking I was being polite.

“Good afternoon, I’m Detective James Rodríguez. Can you understand me?”

“I can,” I said.

I couldn’t recognize my own voice. I felt as if barbed wire was stuck on my throat. Was I trying to make gutturals again?

“What can you tell me about the night of November 5th?” Detective Rodríguez asked.

I thought for a minute, but my mind was blank.

“What day is it?” I asked.

“Tuesday, November 8th.”

November 5th, three days ago… What happened? And, why is that important? I thought some more.

“I guess I woke up like any other day and went about my business.”

“Where’s your domicile?”

“I don’t have one.”

“It checks out. Can you tell me about this business of yours?”

The conversation started to make me uncomfortable. My mother told me never to talk to cops: “Their job is to turn innocent people into victims of their abuse; stay away from them.” She used to say. Whatever happened to the old lady? I should call her once.

“I do odd jobs to earn my share of bread: collect recyclable material, carry people’s groceries, walk dogs. Whatever necessary to stay a decent citizen.” “I bet you do. Why don’t you have a real job?” “Well, why don’t you? Interrogating poor sick men doesn’t seem like an honest job to me.”

Detective Rodríguez stared at me for a minute or two before leaving the room. I would have expected him to look at me with hate after my “fuck the police” attitude display, but his eyes showed a different state, maybe bewilderment.

Minutes later, a doctor came to see me, his name was Luis Ottenwalder. He had a dull expression, as if he would rather be in a trench than in the same room with me, and I don’t blame him; I’m not the best company. Of course, his lack of enthusiasm could have been due to multiple 24-hour shifts in the same week.

He looked at the chart at the foot of the bed, and without lifting his eyes, asked:

“Name?”

I hesitated for a moment. Could it be that I don’t remember my own name? He repeated his question.

“I don’t know.”

“How convenient.”

I didn’t quite get the reason for his hostility.

“Well, Mr. John Doe, it seems you will be discharged tomorrow. After that, you are the police’s problem. Just try not to overdose next time.”

“Overdose? I’ve never done drugs in my life!”

“That’s not the story your left arm tells, pal.”

I inspected my left arm and found a group of needle marks where the forearm meets the bicep; I panicked. I didn’t remember injecting myself with anything. I wouldn’t even know how to do it, because I had never done it, but again, I couldn’t remember my own name. Could it be that I actually shot myself with something and overdosed?

I noticed a man wearing all gray standing outside the curtain. I was being watched by the police. The pieces started falling into place, but I still didn’t know what the overall puzzle looked like.

I reviewed the facts. The police wanted me, I overdosed, but doing drugs is not illegal, selling them is. Was I selling them? Probably not, that’s a sober man’s job. Whatever it is, it most likely happened during the night of November 5th. What did I do then? I woke up that morning after sleeping in the park. Since business was slow, I spent the day collecting aluminum cans and glass bottles. I cashed the goods and bought some food with the money. Then, as rain was forecast that evening, I spent the night in a shelter… I don’t remember anything more. The needle marks in my left arm, the blood clot in my right ear, they weren’t there when I entered the shelter.

I removed the needle from my arm; the IV started dripping on the floor. I got up and walked towards the door, the police officer blocked my path by putting the palm of his hand mere centimeters away from my face.

“I’m ready to talk to Detective Rodríguez.”

I would have to wait another 20 minutes for Detective Rodríguez to show up. He showed with a smile on his face, he clearly knew what I ignored.

“What do you say if we start with that poor man you killed?” He said.

THE END.