The man, the doctor, Cristiansohn supposed, asked several more questions; simple questions, simple answers, testing the depth of his memory. Yes, of course, the sky was blue-ish and he could point to his left and recite the alphabet.
Cristiansohn swallowed, leaning defeatedly back against his pillows. "Do you know why?" he asked.
The doctor tapped the head of his pen on the clipboard, reading his notes over again. "An accident," he hazarded, "We don't have the specifics, yet. You're not physically damaged, not severely, but you must have had quite the blow to the head. Precise." He slid the slim glasses up his nose from where they had fallen, like a coquettish smile, while he spoke, "Some people have all the luck, eh?"
Cristiansohn muttered through another series of questions, a nob of sadness slowly gathering in his throat. The doctor nodded, scribbling, and left soon after. He hadn't commented on much of anything, Cristiansohn thought as he bunched the crisp bed sheets in his fists; maybe the doctor thought specifics would disturb him? Maybe Cristiansohn was not to be agitated, in this state.
He tried digging in his mind. He tried sifting his thoughts, sluicing the emptiness for something to cling to. There was nothing. Not a fragment or a shattered memory. He tried to feel the hole, the gape where his life had been. What he knew - his name, the alphabet, his times tables - were a mass, a basic and complete whole of facts. What he didn't know was something else: a tear in the fabric of himself stitched back together without so much as a scar.
Funny thing, but without a hole to know what was missing, it was almost like, and this was a terribly silly thing to think, it was almost as if there were nothing missing at all.