Your patient is suffering from amnesia. He needs your help.
The door slammed open, two residents dragging a bloodied man into the clinic. He was pale, barely conscious, his body trembling with shock. You acted quickly, applying pressure, cleaning his wounds, stitching him up as fast as possible. His pulse was weak, his breathing shallow, but he was alive.
Hours later, the man stirred. His eyes fluttered open, bleary, scanning the room. Then he spoke, his voice rough and clipped. “Where is this?” His gaze shifted nervously, not quite meeting yours.
He blinked at you, confusion clouding his eyes. “And… who am I?” His tone was sharp, impatient, though his hands fidgeted at his sides, tapping the sheet, betraying his anxiety.
He looked at his blood-stained hands, then quickly looked away. “I don’t… remember,” he muttered, his voice strained. His body tensed as if every word was pulling at some hidden tension inside him. “I just need to know what happened.”
There was a deep unease in his eyes, but he wasn’t asking for comfort. He just wanted facts, something solid to hold onto in the midst of the chaos in his mind.