On a cold autumn morning, a bloody faced man in threadbare army fatigues tumbled out of a nondescript gate in North London and crashed onto the pavement.
Out of breath and wheezing from exertion, he hurriedly clambered to his feet, ignoring the startled looks sent his way by the smattering of early morning commuters he almost flattened in his hasty exit. Instead, he immediately turned and dashed off down the pavement as fast as his feet can carry him. His breathing was laboured, wheezing with exertion, his movements clumsy, limbs flailing with evident exhaustion as he thundered down the roadside, scattering people left and right, the nails in his boots ticking against the concrete slabs as if counting down for whatever madness that seemed to nip at his heels.
The man’s eyes were wild with fear, bulging eyes darting behind his shoulder repeatedly as he raced past the rows of shops and cafés sluggishly coming to life on this sleepy mid-week morning. Desperation creased his brow, contouring the flow of the unpleasant mixture of blood and sweat smearing his forehead, the nasty cut splitting his skin just below his hairline bleeding heavily enough to make seeing out his left eye difficult.
He doesn’t break step when he reached the next street corner, continuing straight in his mad sprint, seemingly without even registering that he has reached a crossroad junction. It’s possible that between his exhaustion and limited peripheral vision he didn’t even see that he was running across a busy road, and he certainly didn’t see the double decker bus that turned the corner just as he bounded off the pavement.
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A squeal of brakes pressed just a second too late preceded a sickening crack as skull meets metal, followed seconds later by the dull thud of dead weight skidding across tarmac. Not dead, dead weight, mind. The fleeing man lived, appearing almost peaceful laid out there on the roadway, whatever terrible force that drove him no longer capable of fuelling his flight without his waking mind. He was still; his face slack with unconsciousness, unheeding of the alarmed screams, or the thunder of multiple feet clattering to his aid. He doesn’t hear the harried click of kitten heels that reach him first, nor the warm press of experienced fingers against his neck to check his pulse.
Later, when he woke, in a hospital bed, clean and dry though bruised and sore, he will remember her face. It will be the first thing he saw upon opening his eyes after all; the bus having battered all previous memories clean from his mind. So, now that he was unburdened by the knowledge of whatever terror had snapped at his heels before, free from the weight of a now lost past, he is able and eager to remember the face of his nurse smiling gently above him, free to slowly but surely fall in love with the woman who wears it.
He will learn her name before he learns his own; committing Irene Smith to memory, long before his new name, John Doe, comes to mean anything to him. He will learn that she happened upon him first, on her way to work, having been the nearest medical professional present at the site of his accident. He will learn her loves, her dislikes, what makes her laugh, what makes her cry. All the while piecing together this entirely new person that he has become.
John Doe quickly decides that he will be a loving husband, and eventually a loving father. He builds a new life, working at the same hospital that treated him, one of simple effort and hard work that involves none of the forgotten nightmare that chased him here.
In his ignorance, he finds peace.
