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Every single night in bed
A black cross says “Perhaps you’re getting better
I’d like to thank you for efforts
To promote what really matters
Whenever you’re about to fall
Remember this, it’s not a news flash.
Don’t pretend to know it all, but go ahead
Call it a cocoon crash

What I really see in you
Is nothing like the things you do
As you are doing them right now
What you would really love to win
To become the air as well as trash
To get rid of all your skin
Go ahead, call it a cocoon crash
Call it what you will, call it what you will
Go ahead, call it a cocoon crash”

Suddenly the ego that I used to have
Is no bigger than an eyelash
Clearly I remember someone told me,
“Hold on tight, here’s your cocoon crash

-Cocoon Crash by K's Choice



Chapter 5: John Doe

“John, sweetie, I’m telling you, I have a good feeling about tonight. Tonight could be the night,” my manager, Kev, tells me over the phone.

I wish I could believe him, but he always says that. The wanker’s been saying that for years. The truth is I’m starting to doubt him. Just because a guy’s a demon doesn’t mean he can see into the future.

To be honest, I’d be happy if he could just see into the past, my past specifically.

It all started five years ago. When I say that I mean it literally. For me everything started when I woke up in the California desert. No memory, no money, no ID. All I had was the clothes on my back, which oddly enough included a black leather duster, which I have to say is a really poor choice of clothing for the desert in May.

Luckily I found a highway, and by following it found Margine’s Truck Stop. I was upfront about having no memory and no money, and before I knew it, Margine, (lovely old bird) took me in, gave me a place to crash (even if it was just a storage room) and hired me to help her out with the heavy lifting around the truck stop and dinner. She called me Sebastian, partly because even though I didn’t know so much as my own name, turned out I knew quite a bit of Shakespeare.

I saw doctors, but none of them could figure out why I couldn’t remember anything. Not a thing wrong with you, they said. Useless wankers. The only clue, if you could call it that, was my accent, but no devilishly handsome Brits had gone missing in America. I even tried contacting the British Embassy, but there didn’t seem to be any record of me on either side of the pond. No one reported me missing. No one seemed to be looking for me.

But I was looking for them, whoever they were.

Or more specifically whoever she was. Back then I was sure there was a ‘she’. I would dream about her. Sometimes she would smile at me, and I’d feel like I could take on the world. And sometimes she would cry and I’d feel lost, and want nothing more than to make her smile again.

But when I’d wake up all I could ever remember was that there was a woman. No matter how I’d try I could remember anything. Not the color of her hair. Not the sound of her voice.

I still have the dreams, but I don’t really believe in her anymore. She’s probably just wishful thinking on my part, the longing for someone to know who I am.

Which I guess makes me even more of a fool for listening to Kev.

But then I don’t know any better way to figure out who I am. And girl or no girl, that’s what I want more than anything. That’s why I still follow Kev’s adivce, even though after three years I’m no closer to knowing my own name.

‘Course he has made me a millionaire, which is pretty nice.

Still, sometimes I think he’s been lying to me all these years. That he doesn’t know anything. That he’s just trying to make a buck off of me.

I met Kev about three years ago.

When the private investigators failed to turn up the slightest clue about who I was, I started to get a bit desperate. When the conventional failed me I turned to the supernatural. A whole stream of fake psychics, and the like. Thing is, they’re not all fakes, and that gave me hope. I began chasing down rumors about a demon who could help me find my way, and eventually I found Kev.

It was Kev that talked me into becoming a singer. He said that I’d find her if I just got my face out there. So I started playing in clubs around L.A. Got my face up on posters. It was even Kev’s idea to call me John Doe and market my amnesia as part of my act. The idea was that sooner or later someone who knew me would see my face, recognize me, and then come looking for me.

Three years later I’m still John Doe.

It makes me wonder if it was worth everything I went through.

To be fair, a lot of people have claimed to know me. Mostly young girls. But in the end it turned out that they were liars. The first few times I actually believed them. It hurt like hell when I realized that they knew nothing, that I was no closer to figuring out who I was than I’d been that day I woke up in the desert. I’ve gotten real good at spotting liars, and I’m starting to think that if there was anyone out there who cared they would have found me by now.

That’s one of the reasons I’ve stopped bleaching my hair. I’ve stopped trying to hold onto the the look I had when I first stumbled out of the desert. Maybe it’s time to stop worrying about who I was and start figuring out who I want to be.

“I’ll talk to you later, Kev,” I say as I shut my cell phone.

I don’t want to get my hopes up. Honestly I just want this concert to be over. I want a chance to wander about London. I’m not sure if I was from London or some other part of England, but maybe something British will jog my memory.

It’s a slim hope, but it’s the last one I have left.

I stand there patiently as the assistant hooks up my mic. I can hear the screams as they wait for the show to begin. It’s time to stop worrying about the past or the future. I’ve got a show to do, and at least for the next few hours that’s all that matters.





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