NO REPLY

For Jason, who inspired this story and who will always have a place in my heart...

********************

The young man woke in a light green room, all alone. He raised himself on his elbows and peered about; he couldn't see much without the hated glasses he refused stubbornly to wear. God, how he wished he had them now! Where the hell was he?

"Bloody fuckin' hell," he muttered, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. He began fishing for his cigarettes and realized that he was no longer wearing his own clothes.

"What the fuck is goin' on?" he demanded of the empty room, then he stopped dead, a look of shock upon his handsome face.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?" he shouted, and he was suddenly very frightened, too frightened even to be angry. He could barely hear his own voice; it sounded very faint and far away. He saw a metal pitcher of water on a table beside him. He threw it to the floor; no sound. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he winced again at the pain in his head. Something pulled gently at his arm, and he looked at it, astonished to see an intravenous tube protruding from a bandage on his forearm. So, this was a hospital, then. He ripped the needle out, stood up, and stalked to the door. Putting his head out into the hallway, he shouted once more, "WHAT THE FUCKIN' HELL IS GOIN' ON? WHAT'M I DOIN' HERE?"

He did not really hear this either, but everybody else did, and a nurse and two orderlies came running down the hall towards him. Startled, he backed into the room and the orderlies and nurse came in, presumably shouting excitedly at him.

They looked agitated, to be sure, and their mouths were moving, but no sound was coming out.

The young man's light brown eyes were wild with terror, but he drew himself up and demanded again, his voice shaking ever so slightly, to know just "what the fuckin' hell is goin' on here, anyroad?"

More mouth-moving, no sound.

"Look," said the young man in an exasperated voice, "Whatever you're sayin', I can't fuckin' hear you. Christ on a crutch! I can't even really fuckin' hear meself! " His bravado dissolved, and his face crumpled. He looked very young and very frightened. "Jesus," he said softly, and let himself be put back to bed, unresisting. He closed his eyes and someone touched his hand. He looked at the nurse; it had been she who had touched him. She handed him a piece of paper.

What is your name? was written upon it.

"It's John," he said wearily. "John Lennon." The nurse smiled kindly; she was really pretty. Under other circumstances, he would have been trying to act cool, doing outrageous or funny things to get her attention. But not today. John was far too frightened and far too tired to even think about the girl's appearance. Right now all that he saw was the gentle concern for him that was plain upon her face. Knowing that someone actually cared made him feel a little better. The nurse wrote something else, handed it to him, and waited for him to read it.

What do you remember last, before you woke up here?

"I dunno...I was with someone, a girl, dunno her name--yeah, her boyfriend saw us together and started up with me. I tried to explain that I didn't know she was spoken for, but he wouldn't listen. I had to defend meself, didn't I? There was a fight; I remember he was bleedin'--then he got in a lucky punch an' I lost me balance. I think the bastard kicked me in me fuckin' head--anyroad, it all went black an' I woke up here-- an' I can't hear a fuckin' thing, I can't hardly even hear me own voice!" That voice was rising; he was realizing the seriousness of the whole situation. "That won't do--I'm a fuckin' musician, for Chrissakes--DO summat about this, cantcha?"