Good evening. You should read this in the evening. I’m Marcel Claude. I have such a story to tell you. I’ll keep it short. It’s sad, but true. Aren’t all lives! The date was January 7, 1991. Recalling that date has never been difficult for me. It was the most significant day of my life. You see, I never again enjoyed freedom after that date. I’m in a cell now. It’s comfortable enough, but nothing like my old life at home with my wife and son. January 7, 1991. I’m obsessed with that date as one is obsessed with an addiction. It’s as much a part of me as my duodenum. I have a copy of Dorland’s Illustrated Medical Dictionary from the prison library. I read it most nights. Did you know that the microplus is a common type of cattle tick in Panama? It transmits Texas fever.

It is surreal not to hear oneself scream. Deafness is at its worst in the beginning. One fights it, and reality is only accepted after a severe torment.

I awoke abruptly on January 7, 1991. I could make out an early hour on the gilt clock on the night stand next to me. The hands were dull but visible. I sat up in bed. After staring blankly ahead for a matter of seconds, I could tell from the increased tension in the quilt over my legs that my wife Elisabeth, bless her soul, had shifted in her slumber. She pulled the covers toward her. It was her habit. I haven’t seen her since January 7, 1991. As I sat awake in bed, I realized the muteness of the surrounding midnight room was not an accustomed absence of sound. A weight of iron laconism fell upon me. You wouldn’t believe that a prisoner such as me uses words like laconism. But I used to be good with words.

There was something terrifyingly pure to the quiet on January 7, 1991. I imagined I was dreaming. When I awoke to the harrowing blackness of the night air in that cool bed chamber, a sense of surrealism enveloped my consciousness. It is surreal not to hear oneself scream. Deafness is its worst in the beginning. One fights it, and reality is only accepted after a severe torment. Going to bed a normal man and waking up deaf are unfortunate circumstances. But I should tell you about myself. I’m no one to you as yet. I really was someone then, and not just inmate number 910107. That is my number now. You probably do not have a number like me. I’m Marcel Claude. I told you that already. But it is a nice name.

On January 6, 1991, I led a happy contented life. No one would deny my professional success and acclaim and I enjoyed my pleasant domestic existence as much as any man at his dinner table. I had carved out an agreeable little piece of the universe for myself and family. It’s a big universe and I was happy to have my corner of it. I was thirty-one on January 6, 1991. I was married to Elisabeth, and we had one child, Marcel Jr. Marcel Jr. was the joy of Elisabeth’s life. I liked him too, but he ate too much food. He was two years old on January 6, 1991. That would have meant he was born in 1989. It is not easy in this cell. For work, I wrote. I was a journalist with a major metropolitan newspaper. It hardly matters which one. It was Le Monde. We lived in St. Germain.

Writing allowed me a certain liberality with my schedule. Elisabeth worked a regular nine-to-five, which was more often an eight-to-seven at a law firm. She was a lawyer. I never learned what kind of law she practiced. But you see, Elisabeth and I never bored ourselves with her work. We would talk often of mine. I know we talked about my work on January 6, 1991. January 6, 1991 was an ordinary day. January 7, 1991 was a terrestrial hell. I’ve gotten over it by now. I nearly forgot: we had a dog in those days. It was a Jack Russell terrier named Snyder. I didn’t care for it much. Elisabeth liked dogs. I was never violent. Elisabeth would have told you the same thing. I read a newspaper article in Le Monde that followed my trial in which she called me violent. She was staunchly opposed to my appeal, and even hired an amicus lawyer to fight it.

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.

Now I should tell you that my morning responsibilities included tending to Marcel Jr. He ate too much, but I told you that already. My career as a journalist permitted me to arrive at the office later than most of the worker bees. The subway was always clear. I liked that. Marcel Jr. deserved a lot of attention. Perhaps deserved is not the right word. He needed a lot of attention. In the mornings, I’d help him brush his teeth, take a bath, and get dressed before breakfast. Then I’d drop him off at a daycare like a package at the post office. It was simple enough, and one could say it was our routine. That routine included my getting ready too, and I never once left the apartment without pants. I was a good citizen. I think I still am. On January 7, 1991, I went into little Marcel’s room and found him sleeping. I woke him up by giving him a gentle shake. He rubbed his eyes and frowned at me. He wasn’t very tired, and stepped out of his little bed without any coaxing. I was thankful, as I would have been unable to give him any. In the bathroom, we brushed our teeth side by side at the sink while I ran water for a bath. The tub was around a small walled corner. It was a large bathroom for that size apartment. The apartment had some tasteless art that I picked out. We had some hanging plants too.

There was no sound. I feared I was turning mad. The silence was relentless. Every normal action of the day was accompanied by an abyss of emptiness, and thus, everything seemed new to me…

As I cleaned my teeth, I was struck by the strangeness of the internal sounds created by the bristles against my teeth and gums. It was amazing that although I had no sense of hearing, I could at least sense a subtle vibration. I would be lying if I said it kept hope alive. Because it didn’t. I was very frightened that morning, and my thoughts were all on myself. Even when Marcel Jr. was with me at the sink, I barely noticed him. I was obsessive in perceiving my sudden losses of ability. In the reflection in the mirror, I noticed that Marcel Jr. asked me something. I made him no answer. In the first, I hadn’t heard the question. Secondly, I couldn’t speak. He didn’t understand, and looked at me with wide imploring eyes.

Before shaving, I walked Marcel Jr. over to the tub. He would usually sing in the tub, and it was something I was accustomed to hearing. The water was the right temperature, and I lifted him in. Seeing the water splash around without hearing a single molecule of the whole soup of bubbles was distressing. Marcel Jr. smiled at me. I then returned to the sink. Placing my hands on the counter, I leaned into the mirror before me, staring earnestly into the dumb expression on my face. I hung my head, and reflected on my plight. Miserably, I sobbed at the sink. When I was through with my silent lament, I poured a regular amount of shaving cream into my palm. I slapped my face, as I’ve seen men in trances do to break their spell. There was no sound. I feared I was turning mad. The silence was relentless. Every normal action of the day was accompanied by an abyss of emptiness, and thus, everything seemed new to me, in a unique, vicious sort of way. It was at the sink that I went into a kind of shock. I had never been in shock before, but when I looked into the mirror and attempted to scream, it was too much for me. I watched as my lips quibbled under the intense mental energies exerted by my brain as it ordered them to part. I slammed my face against the mirror, shattering it into fragments. In the splintered remnants that remained moored to the wall, I saw a pretty little triangular piece sticking out of my forehead. I then lost consciousness.

When I awoke, I remember an intense whiteness surrounding me. There was a tube running from my wrist and a number of devices blinking near my head, which rested on two foam pillows. I think there were two pillows. Yes, I am decidedly of the recollection that there were two and not three. At my sides were my wife, a nurse, and two police investigators. The police were in plain clothes, but they showed me badges. It was polite of them to identify themselves. I could tell from watching their mouths that they were all talking to me at once. One of the investigators put a hand up, calling the others to silence. He was the leader of the two officers. He looked like the leader. He had a mustache and the other did not. Men with mustaches are commonly leaders. The officer with the mustache grew impatient with me immediately. I could see his brow furrow, and when he ushered for the other officer to walk Elisabeth and the nurse out of the ugly, sterile room, I knew it was for some other reason than to do me a kindness. When the two women had departed, he showed me photographs of Marcel Jr. face down in the tub. I winced directly, and lunged for the remaining photographs in the officer’s hand. He withdrew them from my reach, glaring at me in an unmoved, discourteous sort of way. I hollered and screamed, but at once did not feel my cheeks so much as move. It was obvious that I remained utterly silent in the hospital bed. I could not see through the tears, nor could I hear the officer’s words as he came very near my face and yelled many things at me. He had an awful odor on his breath of putrid eggs and old coffee. He reeked of an obnoxious, harassing sulfuric tincture.

For an hour they took turns yelling at me and posing questions with their hands. They were very artful with their gesticulations. I gathered they wanted answers from me. I gave them none; it was a physical impossibility that I could not convey to them. When I had written “I’m deaf and mute” on a pad they provided me, the officer with the mustache tore it in half and smashed me in the face. They left me in a state of abjection, as I writhed internally against the misfortune nature had invested in me. Neither my wife nor the nurse returned to me that day, and I succumbed to sleep shortly after the last rays of western light disappeared from the ceiling tiles above the parted curtains. My last memory of January 7, 1991 is composed of an intense ideation toward self-slaughter. But I could not move in the hospital bed, and haven’t contemplated suicide since. Besides, all my walls are padded here, and I like them so.

On the morning of January 8, 1991, the constancy of a beeping machine eventually convinced me out of hibernation. It was the simple tone of a heart monitor, but the loudest sound I’ve heard in my existence. My hearing had returned, and when I coughed, I could hear it echo like a cannonade off the painted cement wall on the opposite side of the room. I said my name to myself. I said, “Marcel Claude.” I could speak. My ailments of hearing and speech had left me, and I have never been plagued by them since.

My hearing had returned, and when I coughed, I could hear it echo like a cannonade off the painted cement wall on the opposite side of the room.

The nurse came in and informed me that I’d be leaving that day. I said “thank you,” at which she flew from the room. In a matter of moments, the officers were at my bedside again. They put all kinds of questions to me, and I answered them as best I could, to their total dissatisfaction. They called me a murderer, and were clearly more concerned with harvesting an admission from me than an explanation. To them, it was an unshakable truth that I had killed my son and dog with a malignant heart, and they told me they were glad, for my wife’s sake, that she had left the apartment before my murderous rampage wrecked her. I told them I hadn’t murdered Marcel Jr., and that all was an accident and misfortune. They asked me why I hadn’t answered their questions the day previous, and I told them I hadn’t heard them. They asked how I could hear them now, and I said I didn’t know. They asked why I hadn’t explained my case, and I answered that I was mute. They said, “You’re note mute now.” And I answered, “You are right, I am not.” My defense grew none the better.

In fact, it appeared that my case grew worse with the addition of my explanations. The officers were very skillful in their interrogation. I asked how they had trained to perform such an inquiry such as they did. They were not inclined to answer me, but carried on with much ability. I must compliment them, as I did by the time of closing arguments at trial. I represented my own case, and was a good sport in not objecting to anything the prosecutor did. He was very kind to me, and treated me with dignity in front of the press. He always touched his hair before he addressed the press. He was a handsome fellow. In court, the prosecutor told the jury that Elisabeth had witnessed me strangling the dog in our bedchamber. He portrayed the listlessness I displayed to my wife when she found me squeezing the life out of the dog. He showed photographs of my dead son on a big colorful screen from a projector. I particularly remember the prosecutor’s depiction of a young person drowning face down. He put his arms out to his sides and hung his head toward the marble floor for the jury to consider. He made the illustration in front of the table at which I sat, which caused me alarm at the time. Elisabeth did not appear in court. She cut me down in an affidavit filed by her lawyer. Her lawyer had a queer name.

The officers testified that I refused to answer their questions, and that my only reaction consisted of guilty tears when I was finally confronted in the hospital with photographs of Marcel Jr. I learned later that the prosecutor shouldn’t have commented on my silence. However, I harbor no criticisms of his case. He put on a very good case against me, despite its want of truth. It took an experience in court for me to learn the difference between facts and truth. It is a wretched distinction.

The officers were very good with words, as I once was. The prosecutor and the officers talked for many hours. They displayed a pleasant conversational tone during the inquiries, and I could tell that the jury members were comfortable in their seats. An elder lady on the jury cried. The prosecutor handed her a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. I would have liked to have given her a handkerchief, but the prosecutor was quick on the draw. I only objected once, but it was because I had to urinate. I learned that an objection was not the appropriate means of seeking a recess. The law was such a complicated beast!

When it was my turn to testify, I told the jury that I had gone deaf and mute on January 7, 1991, and that all the events were the result of mischance. My direct examination of myself was very short and terse. The jury members stared at me with expressionless faces. The woman who had been crying had a mean countenance. After my explanation, I stepped down from the witness box. I’m serving a life sentence now. It was uncomfortable at first, but I am used to it. I wouldn’t recognize any other life. You see, I’m happy with my illustrated medical dictionary and some of the other books. I’m growing uncommonly good at checkers.