“I didn’t think that humans could choose loneliness. That there were sometimes forces more powerful than the wish to avoid loneliness.” Kazoo Ishiguro, Klara and the Sun
Laughter rang loud in the house whenever I was at home. My three young daughters liked to do that just to piss me in a playful way. Marla, the eldest at 6, was the leader, of course. Molly, at 4, was the most boisterous of them all. And Megan, at 1, just followed her older sisters without understanding what’s going on. My beautiful wife, Martha, at 37, watched them with loving eyes. She’s at the tail-end of her maternity leave and was itching to get back to work. I loved my family and thanked God for blessing me and my wife with healthy and lovely girls.
It didn’t start well. For the first five years of our marriage, Martha was having difficulty getting pregnant. No matter how much we tried, we came out blank year after year. We went to a stress therapist to help us relaxed and ease our anxiety. It paid off after six months. Soon our beautiful Marla came to bring us the joy of being a parent and perhaps saved our marriage.
Martha and I agreed that Marla should have a sibling right away. A boy would be nice. It didn’t take long but my preference was ignored. Molly screamed herself out. Our peaceful house was never the same when we brought Molly home from the hospital. She was determined to tell us she’s no second fiddle. She would get her wishes one way or another. But mostly by being the loudest.
I wanted very much to have a son. Martha disagreed. It took me a while to convince her to try one more time. I had to be nice and sweet, always agreeable to her demands. I gave her gifts and flowers just like a suitor. Then after two years, Martha got pregnant one more time. I was disappointed of the outcome but when I saw Megan, I couldn’t have it any other way. She was so sweet with her Mona Lisa smile that could melt the hardest of all hearts.
I couldn’t impose on Martha to try again. Three children were more than enough. Besides, legacy was not meant to be based on sexual-orientation alone. It’s more on accomplishments. If all my girls would turn out to be okay when they grew up, that’s more than I could hope for.
Martha’s maternity leave was about to end and would be back on her job as a Grade 4 teacher. She had arranged for a babysitter to look after Megan; while Marla and Molly would be on the same school where Martha taught. School opening would happen in a few days.
It was a clear, blue sky in a late morning of Wednesday; just a perfect day to go out. So Martha decided to shop for school accessories and clothes for Marla and Molly. She brought all three with her in their spacious van. Everyone was happy and excited, really looking forward to this outing. They were laughing and singing along with the music on their favourite radio station.
They were southbound at Torbram Road on their way to Bramalea City Centre. Then the unexpected happened. A sports car travelling eastbound on Countryside Drive rammed their van on the side and caused it to flip upside down. All four were still breathing when the emergency personnel came and took them to the nearest hospital. They later died. The driver of the sports car survived.
I was just coming back to the office from a late lunch when my manager met me at the lobby of the main floor and took me to the security office. I’d never been in this room before and was getting anxious of what was this all about. When my manager opened the door, there were two police officers inside waiting for us. One of them asked me to sit down and confirm my name. Then he said that there was an accident involving my whole family and I had to come with them to the hospital.
My head was spinning and my ears were hearing nothing but muffled sound. When my senses came back, I stood up and told the policemen I was ready to go.
I never liked hospitals. They gave me the creep. I got even more scared when the police officers led me to the basement through a cold room. This must be the hospital’s temporary morgue for its recent dead patients, waiting to be identified or to be claimed. There were four beds with bodies covered in white sheets aligned together. The attending hospital staff asked me to come near the beds. One by one, he lifted the sheet covering the face. I looked at the beautiful faces of my wife and three children, now all dead. My tears burst. I also felt constriction on my chest. I gasped for air. I could no longer look and took myself out of the room. I sat on the floor and continued my crying.
*****
The house was pretty much quiet now. The funeral took place two weeks ago and the relatives were all gone. I had the house all by myself. Loneliness would be my sole companion. I spent my time visiting each bedroom, stayed an hour or so and just kept vigil. No more laughter, no more screams, no more joys, no more movements, a house of shattered dreams like a broken glass. The shards could wound deeply. It had become a terrible place, full of sadness and conducive to a deep depression. I couldn’t go back to work no matter how many people told me that it would be good for me. Yeah, to move on and live my life. Not easy to do. I consulted a mental therapist to help me out. But the more I talked to him, the more I got angry. I wanted revenge!
Two years had passed and the trial for the young man who caused my entire family’s death was set to start. He was charged with impaired driving causing death. I sat every day in front of the court to listen and learn more about him.
He was born rich and the only son of a shipping magnate. He’s been cited twice by the police for driving while intoxicated; but both times he got scot free due to procedural technicality in the administration of the breath analyzer. His expensive lawyers were too smart to beat the criminal justice system.
The week before the fatal accident, he was flagged down again for reckless driving while impaired. This time the police did everything right and his driving license was suspended. He was charged but released under his own recognizance.
Two days before the fatal accident, he was rolling dangerously on a busy intersection nine miles away from the scene where his car hit the van. He hit a curb to momentarily stop the car. His head was slumped against the headrest. When a bystander tried to yank the door to check his condition, he woke up, stepped on the gas, hit several flower planters, and sped off with tires squealing and white smoke billowing from the tail pipe. All this was captured on a dashboard camera by a car behind him.
The more I listened the more I got infuriated with a justice system that’s too lenient for drunk drivers. According to data, impaired driving causes more than 10,000 deaths every year, one alcohol-related death every 52 minutes, killed more than 230 children in a recent year figure, and resulted in an estimated social costs of $20.6 billion. So why these scumbags were allowed to continue driving and caused other people’s life to shatter with no healing?
This must stop. At least, I had to do something, make a loud statement. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that someday another family would suffer the same consequence as mine. It must be done now or never.
On the day the prosecution rested, I was seated right behind him. He turned around, looked at his family then rested his eyes on mine. I saw in full view his arrogant face with that slight smirk as if telling me he would never stay in prison that long. My vision darkened and fury boiled over like a volcano about to erupt. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and summoned my wit. I felt calmness of purpose, determined to do what others didn’t have the courage to do. I stood up, released the 3-D gun hidden on the right sleeve of my jacket and shot the bastard on the head. I serenely checked his pulse on his neck to make sure he was dead. If not, I would be ready to strangle him with my hands. But there was no need. He died without knowing what hit him. A poetic justice to what he did with my family. I dropped the 3-D gun and raised my hands up to surrender.
24 August 2022