He awakened to flame and smoke and it was as though he had been born
again. About him lay thick, summer cloaked forests and heavy carpets of
laurel and brush. Obviously, it was some sort of plane that was burning
nearby and he had probably been in it. In his mind, he remembered only
the blinding flash of white light, then a sea of darkness that had
enveloped him. Whether he had been thrown, clear of the wreck, or whether
he had crawled, he didn't know. But the torn flying suit he wore
convinced him that he had once been airborne in that battered craft.
The heavy, canvas-like material of the flying suit had protected the
blue serge business suit underneath, so that besides a ripped pocket it
was presentable. He grinned wryly in the pre-dawn darkness. Presentable
to whom? The squirrels? He peeled off the flying suit and added it to
the flaming wreckage, then staggered off through the night toward the
valley below. There was usually, he recalled, water in ravines.
He used small saplings for handholds while his head thumped and
thundered wildly. Probing fingers found a lump beneath blood matted hair
that was sensitive to the touch. There was a scratch on his cheek,
sealed with dried blood, and his hands were skinned as though he had
broken a fall in cinders with them. It was, he decided, amazing that he
had survived a plane crash with so little injury; but then, stranger
things had happened.
There was a run at the bottom of the hill, one of those leaf choked,
meandering little creeks that become stagnant pools in July and August,
and raging torrents of brown water in the spring. Lying on a sloping,
flat rock he thrust his face into the stream and drank deeply, feeling
the life flow from the water into the weariness of his body. He washed
his face in it, splashing it over his head until his mind began to
function with familiar clarity.
However, he still did not know who he was...
When he tried to search backward into the past, he could see only the
white flash and the darkness. It was frightening. It was as though
someone had taken a pair of scissors and cut away the whole memory of
his past life. He fumbled through his pockets, found the wallet and the
cigarette lighter and began flipping through the cards with the help of
the tiny lighter flame.
An identification card labelled him NicholasHowardDanson and stated
that he lived at 2312 Weisman Drive, Everett, Pennsylvania. There was
also, a draft, social security and drivers license card. The others were
membership certificates to various clubs and organizations. Finally
there were several pictures of himself and a woman; in fact, there were
a great many pictures of the woman. One was a portrait of her,
inscribed, "love, Margret", which told him that she was either a girlfriend
or his wife.
Nick extinguished the light and put the wallet away. In his shirt pocket
he found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He shook one out, lit it and
dragged the smoke down deep into his lungs while he pondered over his
newly discovered self.
Of course the proper thing to do would be to get to a phone, call the
local authorities and explain the crash. The law would help him get home
and check him out. That was the proper thing - but he wasn't about to
do the proper thing. He was a stranger to himself. Who was he? What was
he? He could well be outside the law, a criminal... Then what? Turn
yourself in, Danson, he grimaced, and discover that you are wanted by
the law for something? To hell with that. Get to this Margret woman and get
some answers to a few questions before you bring in the law.
Apparently, no one had seen the crash. No one knew he was here. Perhaps
it would be better to leave it like that until he had a chance to find
out just what he was up against.
He decided not to contact anyone. When it was light, enough he would look
for a ride to somewhere. At a gas station he could find out where he was
and where Everett, Pennsylvania was. Then, by thumbing, he could get a
ride to where he lived. If this Margret woman was his wife, she could fill
him in. There was plenty of time to call the law.
Sleep, when he tried it, refused to come. There were too many unanswered
questions rocketing around in his brain. Well, he had to find a road,
eventually, so it might as well be now. Perhaps the more distance
he put between himself and the wreck, the better it would be for him. He
took a final drink of water from the creek and stood up, his sore,
battered muscles protesting violently. Then he began to stumble through
the adumbral forests to find a road.
YOU ARE READING
I USED TO KNOW HIM
Fiksi IlmiahEvery disappearance has a mystery behind it. but the disappearance of Nicholas Danson, Nick, an ordinary artist with a simple life, leaves his troubled wife, Margret, devastated and discovering a new type of world she never believed existed. HOWEVER...