A Slow Asphyxiation
By Daniel Crépault
Pain shot through Adan’s sternum as he tried to sit up. He abandoned the effort with a grimace and lay back down. Bedsheets tangled around him, cold and damp with sweat. Monitors and machines beeped at regular intervals. It was raining. The big grey clouds blocked the midday sun and sent raindrops to tap rhythmically on the windowpane next to Adan’s bed.
He tried to remember what happened, how he’d gotten here. Confused memories flashed through his mind, half-remembered sounds and phrases devoid of the context needed to unscramble them. Images out of sequence, like photographs thrown off a roof, fluttered into his consciousness. The screech of metal as the car crumpled around him, the violent kiss of an airbag, a weight on his chest like nothing he’d ever felt—and the wail of an approaching ambulance.
His pulse quickened as the memories came, his breathing too, but he willed himself to concentrate. Thoughts took shape gradually, like spectres emerging through dense fog. Adan’s throat was dry, and the heaviness in his abdomen combined with the antiseptic reek of the ward was nauseating. Thankfully, these parts of his experience held no mystery, and he recognized them at once as the familiar heralds of a hangover.
A nurse dressed in teal scrubs burst into the room and began changing his IV. Adan turned his head to look at her, gritting his teeth as pain exploded through his neck and collarbone.
“Excuse me, miss.”
The nurse continued her task without looking at him.
“How did I get here? Can you tell me what happened?”
“Someone will be in shortly,” the nurse said. She turned toward him, eyes hard, a look of contempt etched into her youthful features. “I’m sure they’ll explain what you did.”
Adan opened his mouth to speak, but the nurse turned and walked out of the room, careful to close the door behind her. Questions still filled Adan’s mind, vying for his attention like hyperactive children, refusing to be ignored. His heart was hammering in his chest, making his injured body ache even more.
He wondered what the nurse had meant by that phrase, what you did. There’d been an accident, that was certain, Adan’s second in six months. His wife Gloria was going to kill him. The last sober moment he could recall was of Gloria leaving their condo for the gym, rolled up yoga mat in hand, just before he’d headed for the game.
Sweat beaded along his brow, and Adan tried to raise his hand to his face but found that it wouldn’t obey his commands. Looking down, he saw the Velcro restraint snaking around his wrist, holding it fast to the chrome bed rail. Radio chatter drew his attention to the open door where two blurry figures stood. They approached with determined steps, and a squinting Adan saw another familiar sight—Toronto Police uniforms.
A tall blonde officer opened her notebook and began reading. “Mr. Garcia, you are under arrest for impaired driving causing death…”
Adan’s throat tightened. He began remembering other things, too. New memories flooded in, disjointed fragments that he would spend years trying to forget—fumbling around the console searching for his phone and careening onto the sidewalk, a woman shrieking, and hands reaching for him, pulling him from the car. Blows had rained down on his face and neck like a shower of sudden brutality, and the taste of slush, like a dirt snow cone, filled his mouth as he lay face down in the street.
Oh, God, no. He was hyperventilating now, the ringing in his ears nearly drowning out the officer’s words, filling him with terror.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you…”
Adan had always prided himself on his athleticism, and, fueled by a sudden adrenaline that made him forget the pain, he managed to rise and vault out of bed. Both Adan and the officers were surprised by the speed and agility he was able to conjure up despite his injuries. But in his fear-induced mania, he’d forgotten about the velcro strap still connecting his wrist to the bedrail. Adan’s body was jerked backwards, and he fell hard onto the terrazzo floor, greeted by a new wave of pain and then the darkness of unconsciousness.
*
Months later, sitting in the dark wood-panelled courtroom, Adan replayed the last moments with his wife, wishing one of them had stayed home that night. Gloria was not in attendance, yet her presence filled the cramped courtroom, hanging in the air like the oppressive humidity before a summer thunderstorm. Adan glanced behind him and saw the assembled reporters, chatting with collegial good humour, waiting for their chance to cross-examine him during his short walk back to cells. Looking through the rest of the assembled spectators, he made eye contact with Gloria’s sister, seated in the front row, and looked away.
The judge entered, and everyone stood as she took her place before the court. As Adan sat back down, he examined his plexiglass enclosure, saw the out-of-focus faces of the onlookers beyond. It reminded him of the Mason jar he filled with fireflies as a kid. As the charges were read out, his mind fled back to that warm night in Niagara. He remembered the joy of bringing the jar home, showing his older brother, and watching the fireflies cast their neon light in the darkness of their bedroom. But he also remembered the tears and heart-sick grief the next day when he’d found them all dead. His brother had explained the mistake—without air holes in the lid, the fireflies were doomed from the moment the jar had been sealed. Adan let his eyes focus on the people beyond the glass, some listening intently and others whispering to their neighbours, casting occasional glances at him. He let himself wonder if they knew he was running out of air.
When the moment finally came and the judge asked how he wanted to plead to the charges, he found he was unable to speak. The judge, patient but insistent, explained that gestures wouldn’t suffice and that a verbal response would be needed for the stenographer’s sake. Adan tried several times to clear his throat but couldn’t seem to shake loose the tightness that was making it hard to breathe and harder to speak. When they finally came, the words were a hoarse whisper. “Guilty.”
THE END
Daniel Crépault is a criminologist, addiction treatment provider, and emerging short fiction writer. He lives in Embrun, Ontario, with his wife and two beautiful sons.
