It Should Have Been Me

When he had recovered enough from the concussion that he was able to comprehend the acute pain in his abdomen, the doctor gave him the news: Marcus had died.

Marcus Albright, twenty-four years old, his best friend since childhood. Marcus Albright, who had present and unmovable in the midst of the chaos of his parents’ divorce. Marcus Albright, who had held him as a thirteen-year-old boy and stroked his hair as he cried over the death of his father. Marcus Albright, who took him in when his own mother had disowned him, who knew the pain of being an orphan. Marcus Albright, who had saved him from suicide in his teen years, and again as a young adult. Marcus Albright, crushed to death in the driver’s seat of his prized 2006 Toyota Corolla, its frame no match for the mass and velocity of the Cadillac SUV that had impacted it. Marcus Albright, born in the summer of 1991, died November 18, 2018.

Robin, however, had survived. Lying in the hospital bed, the doctor told him that he was lucky it wasn’t worse as he went over his injuries: Concussion. Fractured 9th and 10th false ribs, right side. Cuts and abrasions on his face from shattered glass, but those were superficial and would heal on their own, no treatment necessary. “You can put some bandages on them during the day, but make sure you take them off at night, they need to breathe.” Breathe. Robin was suddenly aware of his breathing and the pain that accompanied the feeling of oxygen filling his lungs. He winced and his hand instinctively went to his side. The doctor looked up from the clipboard he was holding.

“Your ribs should heal within six weeks, maybe more. Call us if the pain gets worse or they’re not feeling better by the end of next month. Get plenty of rest, minimal physical activity. You can ice them to reduce the swelling, 15 minutes at a time.” The doctor again looked at his clipboard. “Your file says you have no known allergies, so you can also take Ibuprofen for the pain and swelling. Brand names are Advil and Motrin. Make sure you read and follow the directions on the bottle.” Robin nodded silently. The doctor returned to the clipboard. “Do you have any questions?”

Robin sat for a moment and then took a deep breath. It hurt. “Is Marcus okay?”

The doctor looked at Robin, paused, and set the clipboard down on the bedside table. He took a seat in the chair next to him. Another pause, then a deep breath inhale, followed by a soft sigh.

“There’s no easy way to tell you this….”

- - - - -

As he sat across from the lawyer and peered inside small white box, he tried to make sense of it: twenty-thousand dollars. “For a fresh start”, the will had stated. “You can do anything you want, follow your dreams. Don’t let anything hold you back.”

He wanted Marcus. He dreamed of Marcus. He couldn’t take his mind off of his friend if he tried, and he had tried. Was it some sort of a joke?

No, of course not. Marcus was never one to amuse himself or others at somebody’s expense. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Why did he think that? He didn’t want to think it, but the thought appeared nonetheless, and seemed intent to linger in his mind for a while. It had to be a joke. It couldn’t be real.

Please.

“Are you sure?”

“The will was clear that this was to be left to you. The rest of his savings are split between his church and extended family members, but he wanted you to have the money, along with the contents of this box.”

Robin opened the box. Inside was a little black book and several pieces of stationery. He reached inside and picked up the little black book flipping to a random page. “April 9th: Today I’m thankful that Robin and I got to go to the park. The weather was beautiful.” He turned a few more pages. “May 1st: Today I’m thankful that my lunch was delicious. I had a buffalo chicken sandwich.” Another page. “May 11th: Today I’m thankful that Robin picked up his phone when I Called him. I’ve been worried about him. We talked for an hour. I think it helped him.”

Robin closed the book, thanked the lawyer for his time, and started home.

- - - - -

At the funeral, Robin sat silently in the pew, tracing his fingers along the wooden underside of his seat, feeling the intricacies of each curve, mound, and valley in the grain. He listened silently as the pastor made his sermon, but didn’t hear a word. After the service, when old acquaintances from high school tried to cheer him up, he muttered the same words he had confessed to the corpse:

“It should have been me.”

He left early, before too many people could ask him about the upcoming trial. He wasn’t interested in talking about it, thinking about it, dwelling on it at all. When he arrived at home, he opened his email and selected the message from his boss. She has said that given his circumstances he could take all the time he needed to recover, and to let her know when he was comfortable with returning to work. He started on a draft.

“I won’t be returning.”

Sent.

- - - - -

The defense attorney had argued for leniency in before the media, working alongside a professional public relations team. His client was, he claimed, a stalwart member of a community. It was a momentary lapse in judgement. Came from a good family. Had hosted charity fundraisers. No prior convictions. Committed boyfriend. Loved his dogs.

The Crown called Robin to let him know that he wouldn’t be called to testify after all. The case would not be going to trial. The defendant had taken a plea bargain, pleading guilty to one count of impaired driving causing bodily harm. The charge of impaired driving causing bodily harm was being dropped. Robin asked what the expected sentence would be.

“The maximum sentence is life imprisonment, but that isn’t very likely. Based on past cases involving this judge, and given his cooperation with the investigation, I would expect something closer to 4 years.”

Robin hung up and calmly placed his phone down on the table. He squeezed it hard enough that his hand began to throb and hurt, then slowly bowed his head, and began to scream.

- - - - -

Robin joined the cluster of reporters outside the courthouse, standing just behind them. The judge had just given the verdict and the defendant was expected to exit shortly: 3 years.

3 years in prison for a life snuffed out in its prime. 3 years, punishment for taking one of the best examples of humanity from a world that so desperately needed it. 3 years for depriving him of his rock, his stability, his saviour, his friend. 3 years; justice miscarried.

Robin gritted his teeth, but relaxed as his left hand thumbed the leathery surface of the book contained in the pouch of his hoody. For a moment, he felt as if he might tear up, about to find himself lost once again in the black hole and despair that had plagued him since boyhood, intensified by the loss of the only person who had mattered to him anymore. The cold steel in his right hand brought him back to reality. Robin’s sadness was gone, the sea of sadness blown away by torrents of rage. He tightened his grip. It had been expensive, but worth every dollar. And besides, money didn’t matter any more.

There was a stirring from the crowd as the courthouse doors opened, and the attorney and newly convicted started down the stairs. All eyes were on them. Nobody from the press paid any attention to the man in the hoodie stepping out from the back of the crowd. Nobody noticed that he had raised his right arm in front of him. But as the convict and his advocate looked up from the ground ahead of them, they heard his words, his confession of the thought that had plagued him since that cold November night, the words that witnesses and videotape would corroborate:

“It should have been me.”