30 Days to April WIP
PROLOGUE: 48 Hours
"It's still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die
The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by,"
As Time Goes By, Dooley Wilson


Anxiety stuck to these walls like glue, where convicts and criminals and rarely the innocent step onto the pinnacle of judgment, ready for their life to change violently at the swing of a gavel. A court, they said to me on the ride over. This is where they'll decide where you will go next after the mess you made, they explained. As far as I was concerned, it got me out of that lifeless cell. It was a rough journey up to this point: I had woken up on the cold, concrete floor dazed and utterly clueless of what was going on. Dried stains of blood on my shirt, my pants ripped in more places than one. They told me to call someone, a friend or relative but I couldn't recall a single person that would fall into that category. The only person in my mind was April, however the phone was alien to me, let alone the number they said I needed to dial to call. I had spent most of my time sleeping, resting the aches in my joints and the bruises on my body: it closed me off from the overwhelming unfamiliarity of this life I found myself in. It was exasperating.

I was still struggling to remember the basics: I was in jail, for something they wouldn't dare mention, and now I have to be punished for it. The guards would occasionally snicker at the unfortunate place I found myself in, without a stable recollection of what was happening. I spent the past forty eight hours searching tirelessly through the fragmented remnants of my memory, piecing together what was left of this catastrophe. It was April that kept these thoughts intact: A night out to celebrate five years married, and Dooley Wilson's As Time Goes By ending our night in slow-dance. The harder I thought, the harder it became to pull details out. Her perfume, a seductive scent of rose, was the last pleasing memory I had. Any other details were minute; the satin red heels and silk dress that fell down to her knees, how the candle light resonated through her cloudy blue eyes, but none of this would explain why I was being sent to a courthouse.

The place itself offered no familiarity. It's decor was bland, and everything seemed poorly lit. The dusty panels and empty pews only further complimented the lackluster state of affairs. The window outside showed a bustling street, the sun rising on the skyline of Seattle; the buildings radiated with fresh sunlight. It was the only noteworthy feature of this drab courtroom, a beacon of hope for those lost in the system. I looked up at the podium to see two men I presumed to be the judge and a police officer by his side. The judge himself was a portly man, no doubt disinterested by whatever trouble I was in.
Am I in trouble?

The custody officer directed me to the chair sitting in front of the stage, also empty of a jury. The only audience was the line of trouble-makers behind me, waiting their turn for their chance at fate. I was the first for today. A man in a tattered brown suit sat beside me, eyes closed and snoring profusely. If I remember correctly, the officer said that he would be trying to help me. So much for that. I was no different; I was just another case to them. Where was April during all of this? Surely someone must have told her that her husband was in jail and couldn't remember a damn thing. I couldn't recall anything more to save myself. It was all very frustrating. The judge noticed me, and began the act.

“Mr. Erickson, thank you for coming," Like I had a choice, I nodded silently anyway. The script began to play through the judge’s mouth. Another disaster. Another sob-story. Another delinquent to society. On queue, the man beside me woke sharply, fixing his shuffled toupee and breaking out his papers. My name was plastered all over them, still a foreign identifier to me. He passed a broken smile to me faker than the hair on his head. The stench of coffee coming from his breathe was worse than the plague. I looked back to the judge “I hope you realize why you are here.”

“…Uh, no sir,” the sweat building on my brow.

“Well let’s get to it, shall we? I call this session to order on March 31st 2014 involving the case of a Mr. David Erickson," The judge looked down at his papers, raising a brow. "This report documents the fatal traffic accident that occurred 03/27/14 at approximately 0115 hours at the intersection of 257th Street and Birch Avenue. Passenger 1 April Erickson was pronounced dead at the scene by Doctor Luke Ward MD."
Dead at the scene. Dead, really dead.
Confusion turned to anger. Who was the heartless bastard that took an innocent woman's life, and why was I the one serving time? I clenched my fist as the frustration blinded my sight. The judge continued on, a detached Narrator in my modern Shakespearean tragedy. He described the story in gory detail, first the medical report: April's dark red hair mangled in the mess of glass and blood was horrific. The catalyst for all this, a man driving a bent up ford pickup, was walking without scathe. A god-given miracle he proclaimed to himself, not noticing the lifeless body that his accident produced. She was the only thought left in my head these past 48 hours, The rest was an inexplicable void. The last light of hope in my life was taken away by"Henry Longhorn" who T-boned our car at full speed. Cause? Break failure. It seemed almost comical, how this story kept playing out. This man, forty-eight with no family, could so easily destroy the life of another. I broke no law, but that man broke me. However there was no point in being angry, I'm sure he's long gone by now. Counting his blessings that "so few were injured". The outpour of tears distorted my vision: the clouds were setting in on the skyline outside, the street less crowded now.

I had lost track of time in my state of rage: the attention had shifted to the young officer who was reading his take on the scene.

"On 03/27/14 at approximately 0130 I was dispatched to a traffic accident at the intersection of 257th Street and Birch Avenue. Upon my arrival I found driver 1 David Erickson 03/14/84 lying on the steering wheel of his vehicle, a black in color 2009 Honda Civic, he was alert and coherent, asking if his wife was alright. I could smell the strong odor of an unknown alcoholic beverage coming from the interior of the vehicle. Fire District 8 responded and removed David and his wife April from the vehicle. One of the fire fighters reported to me that passenger 1 April Erickson was deceased and had been pronounced so by Doctor Luke Ward at 0155."
There it was again. Dead. The one thing I had held onto the past two days had been ripped from me without cause or purpose. Years spent with this girl, gone in seconds. If only I could have told her how much I loved her before all of this happened. If only I could have been the one to take the hit. My heart belonged to April, and now she's gone. Her fragility exposed in one moment, destroying an entire life. Where was I to go from here? Why couldn't it have been me?
Bankrupt in the game of life. "I administered a blood alcohol test on David with my state issued breathalyzer and the results at approximately 0200 were a blood alcohol content of 0.09. I arrested David Erickson at the scene and booked him into the county Jail for Driving under the Influence of an Alcoholic Substance."
I was the monster.
The memories broke the floodgate violently: celebrating the night with a movie, and the bar afterwards. I was holding back, it was my night to drive. The Dooley Wilson song marking last call, our time to go. I remember that intersection, too: the lights too dim, the ground too rough. A project left unfinished, claimed by no one. I remember waiting for that light, promising April a cup of coffee to curb the inevitable hangover. We knew a more intimate night awaited.
The officer looked up at me, no emotion in his eyes: Business as usual for them. I could barely stand now; I looked back to the man next to me, who had fallen back asleep. I squinted down at the papers he laid out, a script that had a full account of my entire life. He knew more about me than I did. I must not have been that interesting, if it's put him to sleep. At this point I was holding back a complete breakdown, the tears washed through the remaining cuts on my cheeks carrying traces of blood with it. I was screaming on the inside. That night was not meant to be like this, but the breathalyzer was not faulty and I can't argue against the truth. My judgement was not impaired by alcohol; I did not go back against my promise to April. I'm positive of this, but that didn't stop the self denial. I'm the felon. The terrible husband. The murderer.
"Do you have any testimony against this information, Mr. Erickson?" I remained silent, the blood now draining from my head. The judge seemed to take the hint. "Well, if there is no argument, that makes my decision a lot easier,"
Here it comes, my life was over.
"I find you guilty of driving under the influence of an alcoholic substance,and I place you under a five year sentence with fine of $10,000," The Judge echoed through the courtroom. I guess that is the cost of a life, ten thousand. I nodded silently. The tapping of the gavel was the signal that the show was over, my time to exit the stage. Rain tapped lightly on the windowpane, washing away the view of the once lively city.
"Mistakes are human, they can't break love," she'd say, the cause minute and insignificant. Maybe a broken plate or misplaced keys. She saw the light in everyone, a burning flame guiding the weak. There was no taking back the mistakes I made, but none of this was fair.
This wasn't what I deserved. A reset to square one.