text: Joe stood in front of the vending machine pondering his selection. The candy occupied the fourth and fifth rows, between the savory snacks and the Grandma’s Cookies. It struck him that, considering this was a hospital, there was a distinct lack of healthy options available. It also struck him that, despite not knowing who he was or where he was from, he knew how to operate a vending machine. And, although he didn't know his own name (Joe, a derivation of John Doe, was the name given to him by the nurses until he could remember his own), he knew the names of all the candy bars. Another thing he did know, was that he wasn’t in search of a healthy snack. He had been craving the rich and heady combination of sweet, creamy, milk chocolate and soft caramel for days. As soon as he'd been allowed out of bed, he'd wheeled his IV stand down the corridor to the elevator lobby, in search of his sugar fix. Now, he was torn between the chewy nougat and the promise of a peanut or two in the Snickers bar, and the crisp snap of the finger biscuits in the Twix. Twix or Snickers? Snickers or Twix? 42 or 46? 46 or 42? He couldn’t decide. A small, but restless, queue was forming behind him. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. His palms were slick with moisture. He wiped them on the front of his hospital gown. Twix! No, Snickers! No, Twix. No! It had to be Snickers! He punched in the first number. Four ... His finger hovered over the six. But his gaze drifted to the seven. His finger followed. What was wrong with him? Push the six! Get the Snickers. SIX! SIX! SIX! He pushed the seven. "Shit!" He punched the six. Jabbed it again and again! Hammered it furiously in a sudden frenzy of rage as the bright yellow packet of M&Ms began to move jerkily towards him. "Damn it!" he yelled as the packet dropped into the tray with a soft rattle. He slammed his palm against the glass. The machine shuddered. "Hey, Buddy! Are you ok?" the man behind him asked. "OF COURSE, IM NOT OK! DO I LOOK LIKE I'M OK? I WANTED THE SNICKERS!" The man's mouth dropped open. He looked as if he was going to speak, then appeared to think better of it. Instead, he cleared his throat and shuffled back a couple of paces, examining his finger nails. Joe turned and headed back down the corridor. He'd had to borrow the 95 cents from the guy in the next room. He wasn’t going to be defeated. He had to get more money. "Hey!" the man shouted after him. "You forgot your candy!" Joe turned, about to unleash a torrent of abuse. The man was waving the yellow packet of M&Ms at him. Then the flashback hit. It wasn’t the first one. That had happened the day he'd woken up. They had just taken out his breathing tube and helped him to sit up and take a few sips of iced water through a straw. He’d had no idea where he was, or how he'd gotten there. Couldn't remember a thing. His name. Where he lived. What he did. Whether he was married or had a family. Nothing. His mind was just one big, black hole. They were telling him not to worry. That he'd had a nasty bang on the head. That it was normal at this stage. That it would all come back in time. Then, one of the nurses smoothed the bedspread over his body. His eyes were drawn to her hands. They were small and soft and pink against the blue woven fabric. Her nails were short and clean. The hands looked familiar. Like some he'd seen before. Somewhere ... else ... The colors around the edges of his vision began to blur and distort. It was as if he was looking down a watery tunnel. At the end of the tunnel, caught in a circle of light, the nurse's hands moved quietly. Every detail of them was bright and intense. Every skin crease, every tiny golden hair, every blemish was illuminated and magnified. Then, the blue of the bedspread faded to a dull grey. Its uniform, linear surface became rough and uneven. The hands stopped moving and lay, palms up, pale and still. The warm pink nailbeds faded to a cold blue, and the skin took on a waxy, sallow appearance. Joe realised it was a memory pushing through. If he let it, he knew the picture would widen and he would see who the hands belonged to. But he didn’t want to. A deep, dark dread washed over him. His skin crawled and his gut clenched. He closed his eyes and pushed back against the pillows, away from the image. "No. No! NO!" he screamed. "Joe! Joe!" The nurse with the small hands was touching his cheek. Gently. He opened his eyes. "It's alright, Joe. You're safe. We've got you. Don't worry. It'll all come back. It'll all come back with time." But Joe didn’t want it to come back. From that moment, Joe took great comfort in not knowing who he was, where he had come from and ... what he had done. He didn’t want it all to come back with time. He didn’t want it to come back at all. After that, there were others. One or two a day. All the same. All triggered by a simple sight, sound or smell. A glossy, swinging, auburn ponytail, a peal of girlish laughter, a waft of familiar perfume. Each one would send him spiraling back down the watery tunnel. Each time, more details were revealed. A once swinging ponytail, now limp and still. A once laughing mouth, now silent, its blue lips parted and breathless. A once fresh and vibrant perfume, now stale and faded under the scent of death and decay. It was as if he was completing a terrible jigsaw puzzle, piece by piece. Other things were happening, too. The nurses spent less and less time with him, their warm and friendly smiles and touches replaced by wary expressions and minimal physical contact. Men in suits came to talk to him, asking him questions about what he could remember (which of course was nothing). Over the past couple of days, a uniformed police officer had been stationed at either end of the corridor. He didn’t know if they were there for him. Until today, he'd been confined to bed. Nevertheless, he'd waited for the one posted near the vending machine to go to the bathroom before he had left his room. And now it was the M&Ms at the end of the tunnel. Small hands with short clean fingernails picking them out of the packet one by one. Popping them between smiling pink lips. The bobbing ponytail. The laughter. The perfume. Then, the M&M packet was lying on the rough, uneven surface. Its contents rolled across the floor. Blue, yellow, green ... red. Red on red. Red smears on the pale, cold hands. Wet, red strands in the limp, auburn pony tail. Frothy, red bubbles between the blue parted lips. Joe closed his eyes. He shut out the image. He turned away. When he opened them again, one of the police officers was walking down the corridor towards him. A hand gripped his shoulder firmly from behind. "I think you'd better come back to your room now, sir. We have a few more questions we'd like to ask you."