by Anna Windsor
John Doe
by
Anna Windsor
One
“Happy birthday to me.” My voice didn’t echo, but only because my office at Riverview Psychiatric Hospital was so small. I lifted my way-too-early-morning coffee to toast the institutional clock hanging opposite my only window, and wished the cinder-block walls weren’t quite so blindingly white.
“The big three-oh,” I said to nobody, and pretended like I was shaking a non-existent party noisemaker. The admissions nurse and aide were out with gastroenteritis, and the night-shift secretary was two months from retirement. She showed up only when it damn well pleased her to do so. Which was never.
So, here I was, Dutch Brennan, celebrating a milestone birthday in New York City, all by my lonesome.
Some things never changed.
In my opinion, most things never changed. My father taught me that, along with a lot of paranoid things about how dangerous the world could be.
Just when you think it’s OK, baby girl — boom. Here come the monsters.
Then he’d put me through my paces. Sayokan: Turkish martial arts. I’d trained four days a week, almost every week of my life. If I ever met a monster, I was ready - but I guessed most monsters were scared of Riverview Psychiatric Hospital. I hadn’t met any since I came to work here just after residency and fellowship. Hadn’t met too many friends, either, which is why I was having a birthday at work.
My only gift to myself was a fresh-brewed pot of Starbucks Verona — brewed in the ancient pot down the hallway — mixed with a packet of no-fat cocoa. At least the fresh, nutty scent competed with the hazy stink of orange cleanser, bleach and old-stone-building mould. The rich perfection of chocolate-spiked coffee flooded my mouth and warmed my throat as I leaned back against my rattletrap wooden desk, careful not to bump my computer monitor or topple the stacks of last week’s paperwork.
“Maybe I should buy myself a condo someplace warm, like Malibu,” I told the clock, which silently informed me that it was 3 a.m., and I still had four boring hours to survive before I got to slog home through the snow. But the condo idea - maybe that did have some merit. After all, I was a doctor. And I had dark hair and kind of naturally tanned skin.
“But I’m too full-figured to fit in with the beach bunnies,” I admitted to the clock. “I’d probably never score a date in Malibu.”
Like I ever gave myself a chance to get a date in New York City, either.
How long had it been since I’d done something other than work the night shift, then hit the gym?
Four years?
Five?
The back buzzer blasted through the cool silence of the entire admissions area. I jumped so hard my coffee almost sloshed onto the sleeve of my lab coat.
Oh, great.
My heart thumped high in my chest, like it was thinking about making a break for my throat.
Nobody but the NYPD ever came to the back door, and they probably had a patient to drop off. I stepped out of my office and blinked at the darkened admission hallway. Even though there were five floors full of patients and nurses and aides above my head, ground level was totally deserted.
What if the cops had brought me Godzilla on Crack?
I glanced at the phone on my desk and reluctantly killed what was left of my coffee then threw the cup in the trash.
No big deal.
If I was uncomfortable with the patient, I could always ask the officers to stay for coffee while I completed my evaluation. If things got really hairy, I could call up to the patient floors and get some help.
For now, this was just more of the same. Probably nothing I couldn’t handle on my own, like I did everything else.
I walked out of my office into the admissions hallway and covered the forty-foot distance to the back door as quickly as I could. Outside, I figured I’d find uniformed officers, and probably some poor homeless man or woman in handcuffs and blanket, sporting a wicked-evil case of frostbite on toes and fingers. Definitely the season for that. Had to expect it.
When I hit the intercom button, a gruff voice said, “NYPD. We got an evaluation for you, Doc.”
The metal handle was ice cold when I gripped it and pulled open the door to reveal the two uniforms I expected, and—
Whoa.
OK, so this, I didn’t expect.
“We found this guy wandering on the Triborough Bridge just before midnight.” The officer’s voice barely penetrated my consciousness as I stared at the “patient” standing between the two officers. “Central Emergency stitched him up — said it looks like he chopped himself up with a couple of Ginsu blades. Self-inflicted wounds. He hasn’t said a word since the paramedics scooped him up.”
I stood there, just as mute. Medical school, residency and five years of on-the-job experience at Riverview, and I’d never seen anything like this guy.
The man - John Doe for now - looked like a cross between an extreme bodybuilder and a knight from some book of medieval tales. He stood quietly, no cuffs or restraints, arms folded across his broad, bare chest. Silky black curls brushed the edges of his tanned face. He was barefoot and naked from the waist up, clad only in bloodied jeans that hung in tatters against long, powerful legs.
Way too long since I’d had a date. Yep. The flutters in my belly - definitely not OK. This was a patient, not some muscle hunk showing off in the gym.
Though if more muscle hunks at the gym looked like this . . .
Stop it.
My eyes travelled over each well-cut line and bulge.
John Doe’s eyes, molten emeralds, fixed on me, and my pulse quickened. The air stirred, then hummed, and I could have sworn he was radiating some kind of... power. I could almost see it, like the moonlit darkness shimmering against the office’s only window.
Good God, I’m as crazy as he is.
My heartbeat slowed, then revved again, this time with a funny, skippy, squeezing beat, and I couldn’t seem to get a full breath.
No man could be this handsome.
The sight of him was actually rattling my senses.
And the power thing, that had to be in my head. In my imagination. John Doe was a patient. No supernatural abilities.
But if anyone on Earth really does have superhero powers, this would be the guy.
“Weird that he doesn’t have any visible frostbite,” the second officer was saying during my mute assessment. “Guess he got lucky.”
Doing all I could to make myself be a doctor instead of a slack-jawed idiot, I inched back to allow the officers to escort the patient into Riverview’s admissions hallway.
Those eyes.
I could barely look anywhere else.
/ could dive into those eyes and swim for hours.
My fingers curled. I could not have thoughts like this about a patient. It wasn’t ethical. It was downright slimy.
The man’s lips parted, showing straight, white teeth. He smelled like cinnamon with a touch of cloves — fresh, but not overpowering. Delicious, actually.
Don’t. Go. There.
“Tox screen was clear, labs were normal.” The first cop patted the patient on the shoulder. “Hasn’t given us any trouble.”
John Doe kept staring at me, like he was trying to decide something. His beautiful mouth curved into something like a frown, and he lowered his hands to reveal the design carved into his Betadine-painted and stitched chest.
My eyes locked onto John Doe’s cuts, and my brain seemed to make a whining noise. In fact, it seemed to short out completely. There wasn’t enough room for me to assume a proper defensive stance to fight, but my muscles tightened from years of drilling and practice. I wanted a weapon. Felt like I needed a weapon. Riverview’s admissions hallway became a twisting, bending rabbit hole, and I was Alice, falling forw
ards and backwards at the same time, exploding into some nightmare version of Wonderland.
“Doc?”
One of the policemen . . . but I couldn’t shake off the five pounds of freak-out crawling up and down my spine.
“You OK, Doc?” The second officer sounded a little worried. “Want to come back to us here?”
But I don’t like to go among mad people, Alice remarked. My thoughts chattered outside my control, and I barely kept my teeth from following suit. Oh you can’t help that, said the Cat: we’re all mad here.
John Doe’s full attention remained on me, and those unbelievably deep eyes grew wider and softer with concern. I also saw him struggle for some sort of recognition, as if he thought he should know me, but didn’t.
“Oh, my God.” My voice didn’t sound like my voice. I really couldn’t breathe now. I barely kept myself upright. My vision blurred and swam, and all I could do was point at the cuts etched across John Doe’s heart.
An odd arrangement of lines, like a phoenix in flight and on fire, burning to death as it screamed its fate to imaginary stars above.
I had seen it before.
I had seen it eighteen years ago in Armenia, when I was twelve, before my American soldier father brought me to the United States.
The same pattern had been carved into my mother’s chest the day I found her dead in our living room.
Two
Run.
The urge was so strong I would have bolted down the admissions hallway and locked myself in my office if I hadn’t had a shred of self-control left from years of martial arts training.
Run.
The cops were staring at me. I made myself breathe normally, but fought an urge to blast my fists into John Doe’s gut and knock him away from me.
“It’s OK,” I told the officers, keeping my voice even and calm no matter how much I wanted to scream. Whatever was happening here, I had to find out what the hell it was - and without the audience. “I’ll take it from here. You can go.”
Both uniformed men regarded me like I might belong on a patient floor.
“Doc.” One of the NYPD’s finest looked hesitant. “Maybe we should cuff him for you. Leave you the key. The way he cut himself up, I’m not sure you’ll be safe.”
I waved them off. “I’ve got plenty of help. I’ll just call a tech down here from the second floor.” The lie came easily and I didn’t know why I didn’t take the officers up on the offer to cuff this Adonis when all of my instincts were saying, Run.
My frown must have let them know I was serious. “You have real sickos to go after and this guy doesn’t look like a threat I can’t handle.”
After a pause they gave me nods and left without argument.
As the metal door swung closed behind them, leaving me in the dimly-lit hall facing a man carved up just like my murdered mother, I growled, “What’s your name?”
John Doe kept looking at me. His lips didn’t so much as twitch. Except for the cuts, the man was as perfect as an Italian Renaissance sculpture. I was caught between a desire to touch him or to slug him and get the hell away from those marks on his chest.
Was this it for me? Was I finally losing my mind?
That design on John Doe’s chest. Right over his heart. Sweet Christ. How could it be there? That picture, in that exact place? I was definitely losing my mind. This wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be happening.
But it was.
I picked at the edges of my lab coat to remind myself I was a doctor, and I did have a job to do.
“Come with me.” I motioned towards my office, then took a few steps back down the admissions hallway and waited to see if John Doe would follow.
He did.
Slowly. Gracefully.
Which was a good thing, because even if I called every nurse in the hospital, shots and restraints notwithstanding, I doubted we could have moved that rock-hard body anywhere it didn’t want to go.
At my office door, I glanced back again, and my senses catalogued every tiny detail about him: the black curls, the tanned face, the greener than green eyes. John Doe’s muscles flexed as he followed me into the room and stood quietly on the polished tile floor.
I walked to my desk, then turned and leaned against the front. The clock on my right and the window on my left felt familiar. Normal. Some kind of balance when otherwise I might just tip over.
“What’s your name?” I tried again, in the kindest, calmest voice I could muster.
Nothing.
I took a centring breath this time, and refused to let my annoyance rise. “Do you know what day it is?”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He didn’t move at all, except for slow, even breathing. I kept trying not to appraise him like a piece of art, but I did it anyway. I couldn’t stop myself. He was absolutely riveting.
“Do you know where you are?” I asked, my voice cracking as I stumbled through the last of my standard orientation questions. When John Doe didn’t respond to that either, I shifted gears. “Why did you cut yourself?”
At this, John Doe glanced at his chest, then at me, snagging me once again with the power of his stare, of his presence. I left off the bigger questions about his wounds. Why did you cut yourself like that? Why did you choose exactly that design? But the brightness in his green eyes made me wonder if he didn’t hear my unspoken words.
Long, heated seconds later, John Doe glanced at my office window and cocked his head, like he was listening to something other than me. His expression darkened, and his muscles bunched as he clenched his fists.
My chest tightened even as my heart sank, and my hand crept towards the phone on my desk.
Damn it, but this guy was probably hallucinating.
What was I thinking, bringing him back here alone?
Then, as I watched, John Doe’s jeans just . . . changed.
I froze. Outwardly. Inwardly, I was falling back down that rabbit hole. My lips moved, but I didn’t say anything. My pulse pounded so hard I could hear it in both ears.
Not my imagination. No.
One second those jeans were filthy and tattered.
The next, they were normal, clean and whole jeans.
John Doe was still barefoot and half-naked, but his chest — the phoenix wound — was healing before my eyes.
“What the—?”
It was all I had time to say before he vanished. More like moved so fast I couldn’t really perceive it. I caught the flash of something silver, an image like a bird with bright wings outstretched. Then he was standing on my other side, by the door. The scent of cinnamon and cloves washed through my senses.
John Doe opened his perfect mouth and growled as he took hold of my arm, a grip as firm as a vice. He pulled me away from the window, almost against his hard, tanned chest.
I didn’t fight.
Couldn’t.
Thoughts barely formed in what was left of my mind, but I realized he was pushing me away from him now, away from the window and towards the office door.
At that moment, John Doe finally spoke, and his voice rumbled deep and low. Mountains might have mustered that resonance, if stone could find its own voice.
What he said was: “Run.”
Three
Every nerve in my body fired, propelling me out of my office door into the admissions hallway.
For a split second my mind jerked back in time, to Armenia, to that awful sunlit day when I found my mother’s body. I had run like this, crazy and unbalanced, into the streets, down the road until I made it to my father’s base.
The memory made me stumble.
Fall to one knee.
A bolt of pain fractured the past and brought me back to the present.
Behind me, back in my office, glass crashed and shattered.
Concrete and mortar and plaster shot through my open office door, spraying across the tiles and stinging my calves.
I shoved myself back to my feet, throat closing, eyes tearing. Blood roared in my ears as I
tried to move fast, but I felt my right knee give with a tearing agony.
Someone — or something — behind me let out a roar like a rabid bull.
“Shit. Shit. Shit!” I dragged my bad leg down the admissions hallway, past all the closed doors and darkened windows. My mind focused on the hospital’s back door, on the cold metal handle that would let me out into the snowy night.
John Doe shouted something in a language I had known before, but didn’t remember.
What the fuck is happening here? To me. To him!
I looked over my shoulder, and silvery light almost blinded me.
Fire poured out of my office door in sharp, massive jets, so big they almost reached me.
I barely got my face turned away before I almost lost my eyebrows. My skin ached from the heat as I fell forwards, one limping step at a time. I smelled burning hair. My own. Thick, sulphurous clouds made me choke as I tried to breathe, and each time my bad knee tried to flex, I let out a scream.
John Doe.
No way had he survived that explosion of fire.
But he had to.
I didn’t want him to be dead.
I didn’t want to die.
That friggin’ door seemed like a mile away, even though it was less than ten feet now.
Fireballs streaked past me on both sides. Door facings splintered. Sprinklers went off, pulsing with the fast, hard beat of my heart.
I lurched forwards, slipped again, banged my hurt knee on the tile floor, and yelped.
Something huge and flaming and bellowing soared over my head and slammed to its feet right in front of me, blocking my path to the back door.
Oh God. It has gigantic, scaly feet.
Not real. I had to be hallucinating.
Boom, said my dead father’s voice. Here come the monsters.
Claws the size of butcher knives gouged into the tiles, grating so loud they blotted out the hospital’s fire alarm.
My heart stopped beating, and my breathing stopped too. My chest squeezed in on itself as I looked up into a tower of fire with scaly arms and clawed paws. Unnatural black-coal eyes burned with hungry hatred, and the thing grabbed for me.
