Christopher Eagle - John Doe

Christopher Eagle
John Doe

June 21 2012
Joseph Brant Hospital
Burlington, Ontario.

It was early morning and the television was displaying City TV: Breakfast Television. A special interest of local news for the Greater Toronto Area.

“A pair of Bald Eagles have made their home in the Royal Botanical Gardens Cootes Paradise Sanctuary. The RGB officials request that anyone who wishes to view these amazing birds in their natural habitat please do so with binoculars. The area where they are nesting is off limits to non park personnel and it is advised to keep dogs well away. This is Christopher Turnpike for City TV: Breakfast Television.”

“That is simply amazing news, Chris Turnpike. So there you have it, a young pair of bald eagles nesting at the Royal Botanical Gardens Cootes Paradise. We suggest you take a trip down to the RBG this weekend, take the kids and visit the Beautiful Rock Gardens...”

He was not aware of the Police Officer entering his hospital room. The lights were down low, and the volume on the television was not terribly high. He had been aware that a nurse had been in not too long before and left a tray of food on a table next to him; he had not touched it yet. He had spent the morning listening in, rather than watching, topics stemming from how to dress up a living room to the new nesting pair of eagles in an area called Cootes Paradise.

“Do you have a name?” the Officer asked taking a seat next to the man.

He startled slightly at the sudden sound of a nearby male voice. “Of course I do...” he said opening his eyes for the first time in several days. The lights, although on low illumination, stung. “I-I just can't remember it right now... where am I?” he asked. It was the first time he had spoken in days, and his voice was a little rough.

“Joseph Brant Hospital,” the Police Officer replied. “Can you  give me something to go by other than John Doe.”

“John Doe?” the man replied his brow furrowed intensely as he pondered the name. He did not feel that he recognised the name at all. “Why John Doe?”

“You fell into our laps a week ago, we had to mark you down as something... You know, John Doe for unidentified males, and Jane Doe for unidentified females, right?”

“Oh, I'm an unidentified male then?” he said slightly confused at himself. “Uh... call me Christopher - Chris Eagle,” he said slowly, borrowing the name from the reporter and the story about the birds. Some how it went through is mind to stick the the animal theme of his temporary name.

“Is it possible this is your actual name, Chris?” the Officer asked, as he wrote it down.

“I don't actually know... it could be... I could be Barry Cootes too for all its worth. I'll stick with Chris Eagle until I know otherwise,” he said trying to shift into a more comfortable position; That was short of impossible due to the amount of tubes and wires connecting to him.

“Can we talk about the night we found you? You recall anything.”

Chris squinted looking at the Officer carefully, taking in his insignias, and making a mental-note of the weapon on his hip.“Who are you?” he asked.

“Constable Mark Brook. Halton Police,” he replied.

“Police...”Chris chuckled and winced painfully, “Am I the bad guy?” he asked. He felt a pang of thirst and reached over for the juice box. He fumbled and knocked it over. The Constable picked it up, popped the straw into the box and handed it over. Chris took it and started to drink it in. He was surprised at how tangy and sweet it was at the same time. It was pleasant and ran out all too soon; He would have greatly desired more.

“We wondered if you are part of a criminal underground. You've got that tattoo on your shoulder, gangs out Toronto way have been known to use it. It's the one the Decepticons use. Can you explain it?”

Chris glanced at the shoulder the Police Officer had indicated and stared at it for what seemed like several minutes. He recognised it but was unsure how it got there. “I really don't know...Its very familiar, but I am not recalling why I have it off hand.”

Officer Brook nodded. “The night we found you; Do you have any recollections?”

“Just...being thrown from a car as it went down the road, the laughter as it left me behind.”

“Nothing before that? Do you remember the guys in the vehicle with you?”

Chris closed his eyes and thought really hard. “Just some guys had me tied up, and were hitting me with metal things.” He shook his head... “They weren't men...I remember something about them, they were the size of men, but made of metal... Decepticons maybe?”

“There haven't been Decepticons around here in at least a decade...” Officer Brooks wrote the story down all the same. “That's not to say they can't be back. Any reason why a Decepticon would want you?”

“No, maybe you're right... I really don't recall, I am sorry...” Chris replied.

The Officer nodded. “I'll be back to see if you remember anything, ask the nurses to contact me if you do recall anything.”

Chris nodded and sat back reaching for the tray of food. His stomach suddenly realised he was very hungry. The food on the tray was cold and it contained: A heap of scrambled eggs, leathery toast, yogurt, a tiny orange, small box of All Bran cereal with a tiny carton of milk. He picked up the knife and fork and looked them over before putting the knife down and using the fork to stab at the eggs. He took a bite and raised a brow as he ate. It was watery and tasteless, but not bad. He took a bite of the toast and found it cold and chewy. Not particularly nice, but edible. The yogurt was a little more perplexing. As he ate it he found all the jam-like fruit at the bottom, it kept slipping between the tines of the fork as well. He was just about to bite into the orange and eat it as if it were an apple when the nurse came in.

She looked at the mess that was on the tray and her patient. “Now, John Doe, look at the mess you are making, one would think you never had food before!”

He looked at himself, the tray and the orange in his bandaged hand. “Chris Eagle, its what I am going by now, I don't... recall food.” He resumed moving to bite the orange.

“For the love of god, Chris! Peel the orange first, then eat it.” She snatched it out of her hand and used his knife to mark a score in the skin and used her thumb to pull it upward. She handed it back.

Chris having understood the procedure rapidly peeled back the skin revealing soft fleshy inside that was easily segmented. He bit into one and realised it was the whole version of the juice he had just drunk. “This is good, this is the best!”he said nodding as the juice ran down his chin.

The nurse shook her head at him. “Just in case you don't remember, to eat the cereal, open the box, and pour the box into the bowl. Then pour the milk into the bowl on top of the cereal. Then use a spoon, not a fork to eat.” She lifted the napkin to reveal the hidden spoon. “And use that to wipe your mouth, I'm your nurse not your mother.”

“Oh, how quaint, okay.” he took the cereal box and did as instructed. He could not understand how come he was unable to recall any of this. “I'm sorry my memory seems completely shot...”

“You are telling me! Oh well, at least your speech and motor centres appear to be good.  You do not appear to suffer any impairment to anything other than memory. The doctor will be along later today to see you.” She came along and fussed with his bed dusting off the crumbs. “You need to become a neater eater, mister. Because this just will not do!” she sighed heavily. She marked a few notes on the chart and walked out the room to allow him to finish his breakfast in peace.

Chris smiled in amusement and finished his breakfast. He pushed the tray aside and leaned back to watch the television before he fell asleep.

*  *  *
It was during his sleep his dreams tried to speak to him, to communicate to him what was going on. For some reason the areas he could view in the dreams were sealed off while he was awake. However his nightmares gave him confusing and terrifying images.

It could have been a laboratory of some sort, the technology was extremely advanced if not alien. Across the way from him were a row of tubes, each one having a rolling mass of protoplasm that apparently was being kept stirred up by the injection of air. There were several mechanoids working at terminals throughout the room.

He realised that he was in a glass cylinder as well, not dissimilar to the tubes of protoplasm. Yet his appeared to be full of thick blue liquid goo that was cold. He was starting to panic and hammer at the cylinder, however his motions were extremely restricted. A silver mechanoid walked up.

“I hope you are comfortable,” he said, smiling a sinister smile. “Seeing how your incompetence destroyed six long years of painstaking work, I have chosen to test Shockwave's little side project on you.” He turned and nodded to a large violet mechanoid who's head spotted one large yellow eye. “Shockwave you may proceed with the Synthoid process. Oh and you, you are both exiled and executed.” The machine surged to life and energy coursed through his body. He screamed, and woke up screaming, the nurse was on hand pushing him down gently as he was flailing in the bed.

“What was the dream?” she asked.

He turned his head quickly, eyes filled with panic, but as fast as he awoke the dream and its contents it faded from his memory. “I don't remember...”

“We'll get you a pen and log book, and have you write anything down that comes to your mind. We are going to get you a psychologist, Jerry  Meadows, to come speak with you and perhaps help sort out your memories.”

Hours later she returned with a nice pen and a leather bound book filled with blank pages. He looked it over and it felt right. Something about this felt good. He flipped a page open and took the pen in his left hand. He tipped the book slightly to the right and started to make an entry.

Date: 21,06,2016
Subject: Amnesia

I find myself in a strange city, in an unknown hospital with no knowledge or memory of how I came to get into the situation I got in. Breakfast seemed to be interesting, a lot of confusion for me. I don't understand why something as simple as breakfast turned out to be so difficult.

I have been told I was found at the side of the road just north of where I am recovering. I was found naked, badly injured and all I really recall are the red eyes of the guys who threw me out. I have no name that I can recall, No identification and apparently no history. I sport a lot of strange scars and a tattoo that would belong to some bad-guy alien machines called Decepticons. Why them?

I can see my fingers have black smears, from what I can only guess was a finger printing effort. There is a benefit and a bane to this. If I have a history in crime it will show up and tell me who I am -  and that could explain the tattoo - and then I am most likely a criminal. If nothing shows up, then I am not a criminal and then I will have a harder time trying to find out who I really am.

I will be seeing a psychologist, a man named Jerry Meadow,  I probably will be seeing a social worker later when I am healed more.

So far, I been told I have a multiple broken ribs, punctured lung, broken femur, fractured skull along with a multitude of cuts and bruises. I am in pretty rough shape. Basically, I was left for dead and had it not been for those two kind men, I probably would be in cold storage right now.

I should end it here.

~ Chris Eagle.

Chris put the pen down and and closed the book he then tucked it under his pillow so no one could take it on him and pry. He laid back and turned his head to look out the window next to his bed. He had a good view of the lake. He believed it was the same lake he had seen before because there was a large bridge, and a stack with a massive tongue of flame that licked the sky. He could see a pathway that went parallel to the road and water where people walked their pets and rode bicycles. He hoped he too could get out soon and enjoy the weather. He wanted freedom.

*  *  *