Author's Note: I do not claim ownership of any copyrighted material.
You need to get out.
This hospital isn't going to help you, Leonard. They don't know what it's like having your brains scrambled up. They wouldn't be feeding you this bull if they did. They get to go home every day. Home to their families, their loved ones. And what do you do, Leonard? You're here sitting in your little room, wondering how you're going to use the john without any paper. Is that a life?
You have to leave this place. It isn't for you. You keep writing these notes to yourself, hoping to get some idea of how your messed-up mind works. But you can't forget what happened to your wife.
You are trapped in this place the same way that you're trapped inside your head. You could be heading over one day to eat dinner, then suddenly turn around and be sent to your bed, wondering why you're so hungry. One moment you could be seeing your wife, dying, then suddenly you're here, pissing outside of the toilet.
The guards here can't run very fast -- use that to your advantage. The place is definitely understaffed too. Get yourself a weapon. I know that, at night, the guards head over to the east wing to change shifts. That's your chance. That's how you'll make your big escape.
Leonard slammed headlong into the janitor's chest, knocking the wind out of him.
The guards were in quick pursuit, readying their clubs. The hospital never believed in carrying pistols, but perhaps after tonight they'd rethink their policies.
The ever darkening hallways were unfamiliar to Leonard, but
somehow he'd figured his way around. He was nowhere near his home, the last image he could remember.
Careening down the corridor, dozens of picture fragments came rushing to his head: Rape. Blood. Guns. Shower. Catherine. It felt like someone was smacking him in the face with a photo album.
He quickly dashed around the corner into the next hall. Other patients cheered from behind fiberglass windows set into their doors as he ran by them. Leonard knew he would never be to keep this up if it weren't for the tap shoes the guards wore. Without another thought, he tipped over a bucket of soapy water in their path.
Success. The three of them instantly fell.
The door to the lobby burst open. Faster than even he could comprehend, Leonard snatched the metal clipboard from the receptionist's hands at her desk. She yelped and slammed backwards onto the linoleum.
Only a tall man with perfectly circular-framed glasses stood between him and the exit.
Panting heavily, Leonard held up the clipboard as a threat.
"You don't want to do that," said the tall man with a clear, even voice. "We have patrolmen surrounding the perimeter of the site. Walk though these doors, and you are leaving your life behind." He reached his hand outward. "Give me that."
Leonard's mind was racing. Somehow, he knew he had to leave this place. He had to get to his wife. He needed a reason to live. He thumbed the edge of the steel in his hand.
In a violent blow, he swung the clipboard about an inch deep into the man's skull.
The man instantly fell to his knees, choking on his own pathetic cries as the steel jutted out at an angle from his head. A mixture of terror and disbelief spread over his face. His mouth moved, but no words were formed.
Leonard went passed him, running out through the double doors and into the ever- expanding darkness, forever.
You're a sick man, you know that?
I know you'd never kill anyone without justifiable intent, but did you really have to leave yourself such crappy notes? I mean, look at the info you left yourself. You could pretty much bump-off everyone in California with a name like John (or James) G. I even think one of your uncles had that name.
It's bad enough not remembering anything after your wife's face in that bathroom, but god also blessed you with a not-so-great long term memory, too. When was the last time you had a birthday party?
I think it's the drugs they keep giving you, Leonard. Stay away from anything pink or orange, all right? And if they give you a shot, drink plenty of water afterward; it'll help thin it out.
What am I saying? You know this stuff as well as I do. We're the same damn person, for crying out loud! Well, I guess I only write this stuff down for comfort, knowing that someone here who actually understands will eventually read this.
It's amazing how we're still in the stone ages in terms of psychological care. The only ones who truly know how the brain works are the people who get strapped to their beds at night.
It's the doctors who are clueless.