November 2nd, 1947
I am finally ready. They said I can leave the hospital now. There is no reason for me to stay. I can speak. I can walk. My hair has grown back. It may even end up covering the scar completely. My writing is getting better, though I am still slow. The words do not always come easily.
The memories are coming easier now. I finally remember the truth behind what the doctors call a miracle.
It was a miracle. But not the one they think. I survived because of him.
He made me immortal.
He saved my life. And he wasn’t even there. He saved my life fifty years ago and saves it every day still.
Any ordine ordinary man in my circumstance would have died instantly. Any ordinary man would not have woken up after nearly two years in a coma. Any ordinary man would not have recovered the use of his faculties in the way I have.
It has not been easy. Recovery is slow much of the time, with bursts of great progress. Only to become slow again. I get frustrated.
It is my memory that frustrates me most of all. I still cannot recall his name. Or maybe I do. Sometimes I think I do, but then I think I must be confused. Is it his name or mine?
I remember his face. The glitter he has in his eye when he performs. Performs what, I cannot entirely recall. I just know he looks magnifa magnificent doing it.
I remember the particular curve of his mouth when he laughs at me. A favorite freckle right below his eye. The color of his hair. The sound of his voice.
Other, more baffling things come to mind as well. The smell of gunpowder. Bright lights. Bruises on his arms and the worry that he’s been reckless with something…some experiment? Some daredevil feat? I just know my heart pounds when I think of him. I don’t know where he is. I hardly know who he is. But I worry.
What a fool I am. Why should I worry? If I know one thing for certain, it is that he gave me my life. I don’t know how, but I know it to be true. And surely that means he does not need me to worry over him. Perhaps he is an angel of some kind. Looking over me for God only knows what reason.
I could use heavenly guidance now. I’m being aloud allowed to leave, but I don’t know where to go. At least I appear to speak some Italian. It will make things easier once I leave the care of the British Army. I may speak the language, but I don’t think I live here. And the name I gave them has not yielded any answers. I have suspected for a few months now that it may not have been the right one. And now that I am healthy, they have nothing left to give me.
They are letting me take the books. I’m glad. They help.
I wish I had my old diaries. I know I wrote in one often. I wonder what became of them.
[from the personal diary of C.X. Chambers]
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