Memory Lapse
This short story in the horror genre was published in the second issue of 'Scapes. Story copyright 1988,
William D. Cissna. The story was also adapted in 2010 as a short play.


From where he lay, the dawn appeared a dull gray painted on the outside of the large, grimy window. A tall
brick smokestack cut through the gray, the only landmark denying the theory that the world ended just
beyond this greenish room.
He stared down at the sheet and light institutional blanket that covered his body, at the transparent tube that
came from the sky and disappeared under a wide white tape in the crook of his left arm. He could feel the
pinprick of pain underneath the tape. He'd always hated needles, he could remember that much. After what
seemed like hours of concentration, the word came to him: intravenous.
Gingerly, he lifted the punctured arm and moved it towards his face. With his right hand, he straightened the
plastic band clipped onto his left wrist and read with interest the words inscribed there. The printed words
said "Carrolton Hospital, Cartwright, Pennsylvania." In blue ink, a feminine hand had written "Robert
Carson."
If only he knew what all that meant.
Other than the slight taste of fear tingeing the edges of his limited environment, he sensed a lightly dulled
exhilaration. Amazing, he thought, the complete and total freedom, the wild and marvelous swings of his
imagination as his brain cells paraded through the immense list of options. When you had no idea who you
were, what you did or how you got where you were, infinity seemed a thoughtless restriction to the borders of
an active mind.
He lay on his back, tenderly touching the bandage and pad on his left temple, as the minutes marched by like
hours and the daylight brightened just barely the scene outside his window. Around him, beneath the cloth
that resembled a huge shower curtain to his left, he felt and heard the hospital coming to life, but he tried to
ignore the poundings, stompings and creakings of the building.
A private room, he reasoned, so I'm no indigent on a common ward. Not a big, glitzy place, so probably not a
Rockefeller, either. Unless the business trip or vacation had ended in some out-of-the-way place where
"glitzy" didn't exist. He couldn't recall ever hearing of Cartwright, Pa. Of course, at the moment,
Philadelphia was the only Pennsylvania city he could recall.
What did that leave? Only nearly everything: businessman, athlete, doctor, computer specialist, engineer. Or:
 the world-renowned writer, essayist and humanitarian, winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, the once and future
great human being, Robert Carson.
Then again, maybe he was just the All-American working stiff, a plant laborer with a particularly good health
plan. Something went wrong; a crane out of control dinged him one on the noggin. And now here he was,
wondering if he was married, divorced, had a family, girlfriend, good friends, bad enemies, a place to go or a
place to stay away from.
As he was lost in the middle of yet another re-invention -- in which the space program played a part -- a
wrinkled hand suddenly yanked back the curtain alongside his bed, revealing an old nurse shining in white
with red stripes.
"Aha, Mister Carson, awake at last, I see!"
"How long have I been ... out?" he croaked through dry lips.
"Hasn't been that long, I guess. Twenty-four hours. Here," she said, "thought you'd want to read about
yourself." She tossed a newspaper on his lap and turned to go.
But who am I, he wanted to ask, but as she left, he caught a glimpse of the uniformed man standing guard just
outside the door. The thrill that passed through him erased the unspoken thought. It didn't matter, for now he
knew -- he was somebody important. Private room, private guard. Congressman, business tycoon, secret agent.
On the front page, the newspaper showed a face that looked vaguely familiar. The caption read, "Robert
Carson hospitalized." It was him. He was famous.
He found the story below.

Convicted Murderer Tries to Cheat Fate

CARTWRIGHT, PA ... Robert Carson, 32, recently convicted of three murders and suspected in literally
dozens of other slayings across the country, nearly avoided the electric chair yesterday.
The serial killer, known for the ruthless and bloody nature of his attacks on young women, was slated to die
just before dawn at the state prison just outside Cartwright, Pennsylvania.
When the guards arrived to escort Carson to his date with the chair, he was lying unconscious in his cell.
"He seems to have intentionally slammed his head against the wall until he passed out," said prison warden
Seth Thompson.
According to doctors at nearby Carrolton Hospital, Carson's odds of recovering are excellent.
"We're glad to hear it," said Thompson late yesterday. "The chair's ready and waiting for him when he
returns to us."
The scream from Room 211 could be heard through the entire end of the ward, coming back to Nurse
Richardson time and again over the next few years.
Inside 211, Carson realized for a moment that the window before him had no bars, and nearly burst with
excitement. Until he found that the handcuffs binding his ankles to the bed frame left him no freedom of
movement whatsoever.
By that time, the burly guard had reached his side from the hallway. Looking down, he smiled a greasy grin.
"Awake now, are you?" the guard asked, then paused for a sharp-edged cackle. "So. Ready to go home?"
***
Horror shorts -
by Bill Cissna
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