"DEAD WEIGHT" ~ a short story by A. Edward Cooper
I
woke up in the worst pain I'd ever experienced. My muscles ached, and my skin
was on fire. The sour smell of piss hung heavy. My head was throbbing. I looked
at my bandaged arm, lying limp to my left, and tried to lift it, but it wouldn't
budge. My fingers would twitch when I wanted to move them, so I had some hope.
My
right arm was still working, so I hoisted myself up, the blanket grating
against the raw pink flesh of my forearm the whole time. I was in a hospital,
but I didn't know why. The steady beeping of the machinery felt familiar. I'd
been hearing it in my sleep all night.
Looking
around the room made me sick. White walls, brown curtains, faint yellow stains
on the blue sheets. All I had to look at was the vase of flowers in the framed
still-life painting in front of me. I shut my eyes, and the fluorescent lights
painted my vision red.
It must have been an accident. I remembered driving. I remembered the crunching of the metal frame.
I remembered the blood.
The
pulsating pain in my head forced me to lose focus. I hazily looked around for
water but couldn't find any. I watched a nurse reach her desk, hoping she would
see me lying in my fluids and try to help. She watched her phone for a while
before another nurse took the seat beside her. She turned her back to my room
and started talking about her plans for the night, brushing her blonde hair
with her fingers. I focused on the back of her head for a while and tried to
pick up on what she was saying. She turned to get up, and my eyes shot back to
the painting before me.
An
older woman was being fed pudding across the hall. I watched through the open
door as she took each spoonful, never bothering to wipe the spit from her chin.
She didn't have the same brightness behind her eyes most people still have at
that age. She was sick of being stripped of her independence. Sick of being
treated like a baby. After a few minutes, the nurse left her room and closed
the door behind her.
I
counted her steps to my doorway, but she stopped when the smell hit her. With a
forced smile, she walked up to the bed and asked how I was doing. I told her I
needed water, and she was gone again.
She
made sure to tell the other nurse I needed new sheets.
Dinner
was a few hours later. I was too nauseous to eat, so I stabbed at the chicken
for a while. I occasionally cut a cold piece off and gnawed on it briefly
before spitting it into the trash.
Nothing
was on TV, no one had come to check on me in almost an hour, and I had no idea
where my phone was. I couldn't take another minute staring at the wall. I don't
know how the old lady was able to manage it. I was about to lie down for the
night when the nurse led a police officer into the room to see me.
He pulled the chair up next to the bed and
introduced himself. This didn't seem like any interaction I had had with the
police before. He was calm enough to relax my nerves.
This
felt different.
It
felt somber.
"Hello,
Mr. Harris,"
I
was trying to piece the accident together in my mind.
"My
name is Officer Clarke."
It
had to have been a large truck to deal that damage.
"I'm
glad to hear you're doing alright. When I saw your car, I was sure no one escaped
it."
Playing
it back, I could still remember the loud sound of the door caving in and the
window shattering into thousands of tiny shards.
"Mr. Harris..."
I was rolling over the curb.
"I'm sorry to have to
tell you this,"
My head slammed into the
steering wheel as the car flipped.
And...
"But your passenger-"
"My wife."
Fuck.
How the fuck did I forget
her?
She had been lying across
the back seat. She was the reason we were even in the car.
I knew what he was getting
at. I wanted to puke.
"Your wife.
Unfortunately, she didn't make it."
"What do you mean?"
He solemnly told me that she
had suffered extreme damage to her head and face.
She was partially ejected from
the car and was so severely injured that she was completely unrecognizable.
He explained there was no
hope of bringing her back, as she had most likely died on impact.
I had to try
my hardest to suppress a smile.
He
said nothing about the hammer wounds in the back of her skull.
~
a.edward.cooper@gmail.com