When I awoke in the early morning hours of January 7, 1991, I clutched the sides of my head. I thought then that if I held my ears long enough, if I placed enough pressure on them, my hearing might return. All my endeavors were futile. It was a hopeless situation. There was no ringing in my ears, as had happened on occasion throughout life. There was no sense of internal pressure indicating the commencement of an infection. There was nothing except nothing, an utter loss of hearing that visited me. The severity of the quietude plunged me into a frantic introspection. I did not want to wake Elisabeth. Oh the absolute abyss of that stillness, it haunts me to this day. I stayed awake for hours, contemplating what life would be like as a deaf person. I made vain attempts at convincing myself that it was a dream. When the exhaustion and paranoia took their inevitable toll, I laid my head against the pillow in a state of relentless stupidity. I prayed to god that my hearing would be restored. I don’t believe in god anymore because all the prison guards tell me he doesn’t exist. They’re free men, and I trust their judgment. Especially that one who is talented at checkers.

My heart beat obtrusively, and the internal workings of my body racketed up to my brain. I was not prepared for life as a deaf man.

When I awoke on January 7, 1991, the room was bright. Elisabeth was gone from the bed, and there was no trying to surmise where she was in the house. An uncompromising silence plagued me still. It was more terrifying in the bright of the morning, when the light of day shone upon all the moving parts of the earth. My heart beat obtrusively, and the internal workings of my body racketed up to my brain. I was not prepared for life as a deaf man. And naturally, I could not accept it at first.

Without a say in the matter, I chose to occupy myself with the usual morning preparations. When I stepped out of bed, the heel of my foot crushed something on the floor. I didn’t hear anything, but instead felt an object below me, a soft object, surging with a kind of muscular intensity before turning limp. When I looked down, my foot was on the dog’s neck, and it was lying prostrate. It was obvious to me the thing was dead. Its neck displayed a crescent-shaped patch of fur, mangled and concealing a broken spine. When I lifted the dog up to my face, its head hung down pathetically, and its tongue was out. There was no life in its eyes. I had killed it instantly. I did feel miserable. At the moment I was holding the dog to my face and inspecting it, in walked Elisabeth. She had a muffin on a plate for me and some orange juice. When she saw how the dog’s head hung, as though it was only held in place by the fur on its back, she dropped the glass of juice. It pained me not to hear the glass shatter on the floor. It was then I realized I was incapable of making a response. Fiercely, my mind was streaming with words and explanations. It was intolerable to feel the reverberation in my toes of the glass on the wood planks, to see the liquid airborne after the impact, and yet to hear nothing. Elisabeth ran to me and grabbed the dog. She was yelling something at me. She was crying and screaming. I tried to read her lips but in the bawling ugliness of her tear-ridden face, I could not make out a single word. She slapped me. It was then I realized I was incapable of making a response. Fiercely, my mind was streaming with words and explanations. I wanted to scream at her that it was an accident, as it was. Yet I could feel plainly that my lips refused to move. My jaw and tongue and throat were as lifeless as the dog’s paws, which dangled before me like chimes. I tried to scream at the top of my lungs, but my mouth refused to follow the direction of my brain. I was as mute as a mountain stone. I stood there voiceless. I could not hear or speak to my wife as she fell on me and wept, clutching at my nightshirt and obviously pleading for me to give her some reply. I couldn’t. And I can’t explain why. It was never diagnosed. Some physicians tried after my arrest. You see, I was arrested on January 7, 1991.

The onset of muteness was a terrible circumstance. I could neither hear nor communicate with the world. If you are deaf and mute, you can empathize with me. I ran into the kitchen and scribbled some words on a pad we kept for the purpose of leaving short notes. I wrote “I can’t speak” and “I can’t hear you.” The letters were nearly illegible, as my hand was shaking due to the shock of losing my senses. I wrote “I’m mute” and “You must believe me.” I think I wrote something else too, but can’t now recall. Elisabeth didn’t believe me. She spoke to me as if I could hear her. She refused to write anything on the pad. Hurriedly, and in an intensely emotional state, she left the apartment. She probably had court. I never found out if she had court. Come to think of it now, I’m curious whether she had court on January 7, 1991.