Flash fiction today.

TGIF

‘Hello, Mr Phillips. You are back with us,’ said Doctor Smyth.
‘Yeah, hello, what am I doing here?’
‘Can you remember your name?’
‘You said Phillips, and I guess that’s it?’
‘That is what it says on the driving licence in your pocket. Jamie Phillips. We assume that is your pocket?’
‘Right, where is it now?’
‘On the cabinet next to you. Do you know what today’s date is?’
‘I go to work on Mondays, so I guess it’s Monday?’
‘No, it is Friday.’
‘Is it? It can’t be already?’
‘You have been out cold for four days. What happened?’


The Doctor checked the body temperature and blood pressure of his patient.
‘You are telling me it is Friday?’ A baffled Jamie scratched his stubble. ‘Christ, I haven’t shaved. My boss will go nuts.’
‘I think you have more to worry about than a few days’ growths.’
‘What do you mean? I’m okay, aren’t I?’
‘We don’t know; that is why you are fixed to the machines. Can’t you remember a thing?’ the Doctor asked.
‘No. At least nothing hurts. Wait a moment. I can’t feel my legs or my arms. And I can’t blink my eyes.’
‘Can you move your fingers?’
‘Aagh, I can’t move anything. What is wrong?’
‘That, Jamie, is what we aim to find out. What is the last thing you remember?’
‘I can’t even remember my name.’
‘But you mentioned your boss? He will go nuts, you said.’
‘I can remember her,’ said Jamie.
‘Her?’
‘Yes, she believes in hard work.’
‘You can recall her work ethic, but not your name?’
‘I can see her face.’
‘Can you remember her name?’
‘Yes, I can. Her name is Mrs Phillips.’
‘Your wife?’
‘God, no.’
‘But she has the same name as you?’
‘Yes, that’s strange. Mrs Phillips is not my wife or part of my family. At least, I don’t think so.’
‘Can I look in your wallet to see if there are any photos?’
‘Wait a minute; you must have looked already. You’ve seen my licence.’
‘Ah, no, that was the police. So they told me,’ said the Doctor.
‘Okay then, go ahead. I’m keen to know who I am.’
‘Here we are. You are in the picture with a lady.’
‘Can I see?’
‘Yes, I’ll bring it over.’
‘That’s my boss, but who is she with?’
The Doctor studied his face and looked again at the photo once more.
‘That is you.’
‘No, can’t be. I must have got our jackets or wallets mixed up.’
‘Your face is the same as the one in the shot. Wait, I’ll get a mirror.’
The Doctor returned with a nurse’s makeup glass.
‘There, see, it’s you.’
‘Where is my hair? I have an unruly mop.’
‘No, sorry, you are bald.’
‘Who shaved my head?’
‘That is a normal male baldness pattern. Sorry.’
‘Okay then, check my tattoo. Left shoulder, a Union Flag, bold and clear.’


The Doctor leaned across and rolled down the sheet. He fetched the mirror, ‘See, nothing there.’
‘Where is my tatt? It is only a year old. Don’t say somebody lasered it off?’

‘Your wife is here to see you. Shall I bring her in?’
‘I don’t have a wife. Christ, it’s my boss. What does she want?’
‘Hello, Mrs Phillips. He looks well but confused. I’ll leave you. Goodbye.’ The Doctor strolled away.

‘Well, young man, how do you like the new body?’ Mrs Phillips whispered. ‘My husband will take good care of yours,’ she screeched, turned and waved cheerio.

The END

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