Smoke – A Short Story.

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July 27, 2015 by amat

‘Smoke’

Amatullah Vahanwala

For a brief moment, I wondered if they would even come. My head lay on the cold hard floor of my prison cell, as did the rest of me. My lungs were ablaze, the remainders of the fit that drove me down. The grey tile in front of my face was stained with angry red splatters I had coughed out. I closed my eyes as I finally heard the rusty screech of a door long unopened, and the heavy footsteps of the guards mingling with the light footsteps of the paramedic, who the guard had summoned to check on me. I felt a stinging jab on what little skin on my neck that the scratchy orange uniform exposed. My senses dulled as I felt my body being roughly lifted.

I was in cell number A14 of the modern panopticon-style prison building that contained seventy two of us: the ‘criminals’; and one of them, the ‘law abiding’ servants of The Government. In that cylinder shaped structure, we surrounded him- seventy two to one. However, hiding behind those sleek glass mirrors, the guard was the one in power. Since these were unique, one-way mirrors, none of us inmates knew when he came and his predecessor left.  None of us even knew what either of them looked like; whether their skin was light or dark, whether they had hair or not, or if they were uniformed at all.

Why was I here? I didn’t heed the advice of my loved ones. They warned me of the consequences. They said it was for my own good that I stop. I heard them, I just never listened. When the law was passed against it, I had started keeping secrets. Secrets that were rolled in thin paper and finely cut tobacco. Smoke detectors started being issued in the most unlikely of places, but my addiction persevered. I was off my guard when higher authority arrived, caught, cuffed and drove me away in a police car as my daughter of seven and my mother of sixty seven watched, wide eyed and helpless.

***

I couldn’t risk opening my eyes to see where I was being treated, so I turned to my other senses for a clue. The thin sheet covering me was soft, lacking the crisp starchiness that a regularly laundered hospital sheet would have. There was a clip on my left thumb and a small high-pitched beep emanating somewhere behind me. The air was hot and dense, occasionally broken by small bursts of wind coming from my upper right. The soft sheets, the warm breeze… These sensations told me that I was at the express medical base, still on the prison premises, and plugged into what was possibly a heart monitor to check my breaths. There was a window close by letting air in. It would be barred. There was no air-conditioning, so there would be no air ducts. It wasn’t possible to escape. Not when I was still so close to the place of my confinement. They’d find me.

Once they determined my lungs well enough to return to A14, I’d be back inside the panopticon. I had to do something, and fast. If I needed medical help beyond the capability of this facility, they’d fly me somewhere that could treat me. They wouldn’t be merciful enough to let somebody die just ten years into a life sentence. I resumed the violent coughing charade that I started inside my cell. Nothing. I opened half an eye to see if someone was around to react. Still, nothing. Desperate times called for desperate measures. I hyperventilated and then held my breath- taking in several short breaths gives your brain the impression that you’re still receiving air, rather than a single deep breath. The machine at my side began beeping at a much higher frequency as my heart rate went into overdrive, my cardiac muscles trying to find oxygenated blood to pump to the rest of me. I heard footsteps again.

Pretending to be unconscious is not easy. Pretending to be unconscious and managing to convince a trained paramedic as well is even more trying. Pretending to be unconscious for the next three people brought in to check you up to validate a helicopter ride to the nearest hospital, twelve miles away, can have your nicotine damaged lungs wishing you really were unconscious. During times like these, the only thing that can keep one going is willpower, an exhaustible resource that is better expended with caution. I heard the medics agree to send me to the hospital to avoid being held responsible for any complications involving my health.

Once the helicopter was airborne, I waited seven minutes and blinked my eyes open. I smirked, noting their colossal lapse in security. There were only two other people with me, a willowy nurse and the pilot. I glimpsed a first aid tray sitting open beside the nurse. I made a horrified expression and pointed over her shoulder, causing her to look back. I used her distraction to my advantage as I discreetly pocketed a few syringes, a reflective metal plate and a scalpel. The windows let in piercing rays of bright Arizona sunlight that I positioned the plate under, angling it to reflect on her face. When she turned back to look my way in confusion, her eyes suffered temporary blindness, courtesy physics. I quickly sat up and pushed the sedative inside some of the syringes into her neck. Her mouth moved, but she couldn’t scream, feebly struggling under my weight before falling limp. More than three times a regular dosage can be fatal, and I had five out of seven syringes empty. By now, the pilot had taken notice of the extra movement in the back and was turning his head to take a look this way. Within the second, I propped the nurse’s lifeless body up and jumped back to lie in the stretcher. Satisfied, he went back to looking at the controls and navigating us through the arid desert sky. I looked at the tiny scalpel and decided I needed to equip myself with something more intimidating. I soundlessly rifled through the rest of the medical supplies and found a glass bottle of spirit, a tourniquet wire and metal shears the size of my forearm.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, I caught a glimpse of myself reflected in the metal plate. My matted black curls looked as unkempt as my eyebrows. I was pale, but my mouth was still stained from coughing up blood, back in the panopticon. I dampened a chunk of cotton wool with a splash of spirit and rubbed some colour and cleanliness onto my face. I ran my fingers through my knotted locks and secured them in a long uneven braid with the nurse’s hair tie. Taking apart her hair to do up mine gave me an interesting idea. Before long, I was the one donning white trousers, a button-down shirt and shiny black Mary-Janes, while she was the one in the orange A14 jumpsuit and gray socks. I took another look in the makeshift mirror. “I’m no nurse.”, I mockingly grumbled as I tore the sleeves off of the shirt and about two thirds of the trouser legs. “Not perfect, but it’ll have to do.”

***

Some buildings started showing in the distance, we were getting close. I swilled down half a bottle of vitamin-water and garnered my new weapons. I lithely crawled into the cockpit and wrapped the tourniquet around the unsuspecting pilot’s neck, securing his head to the back of his seat. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing, Miss!” He exclaimed as he began fighting back. I injected his thrashing torso with half a syringe of anaesthetic, not enough to completely vanquish his consciousness, but enough to make him less aggressive. “We need to change course to Albuquerque, do you understand me?” He grasped the control joystick and stubbornly shook his head. With a hard blow, I buried the scalpel in his shin till his head shaking turned to screams of agony. “I’ll ask you one more time. Either you fly us to New Mexico, or I smash this spirit bottle on the control panel and shove the pieces down your throat.”, I pressed. He was afraid and in my power. I assumed he had nothing to lose but his life. “Miss, if word gets out that I helped a convict escape, I’ll be sufferin’ a fate worse than death.” Or maybe he did have a lot more to lose. I wouldn’t know. So much for a life worth living.

I empathised, understanding his situation and did next what any regular, sane convict would do. I pumped more drugs into his veins, smashed his head with the glass bottle and gouged out his eyeballs. His hand fell limp against the arm-rest. I opened the entry hatch, and at first, got thrown back by the massive gusts of wind resistance. I somehow managed to lug his and the skinny nurse’s bodies to the edge and pushed them over, immediately shutting the door afterward. I didn’t dare look to see if they met the ground in one piece and continued onward.

An hour or so later, I had reached city limits. I lowered altitude and tried finding the house. I had the vaguest memory of its location and wasn’t even sure if my family still lived there. I thought of Susan, my daughter. She’d be around sixteen or seventeen, now. I wondered what she looked like, whether her hair had remained light like her father’s or darkened like mine did. Would she remember me? Would I recognise her? I thought of my poor mother. Would she still be alive? I hoped so, as I spotted a familiar neighbourhood layout. Heading closer, I sighted the red and orange roof of my former home. I shakily brought the helicopter down at a nearby playing field, as a gang of loitering teenagers watched with mild interest. Weary from my long haul, I hopped out of the gray chopper.

Home, at last. Now what?

Susan.

No. By now, the prison authorities would know. In fact, they could be coming to get me at this very moment.  If they couldn’t find me, the next people targeted would be my family… I can’t allow that to happen.

With a mournful expression, I sat down on the field, crosslegged and resentful at higher authority. I couldn’t take the ‘copter anywhere else I knew; there wasn’t enough fuel to last another ten miles. I could’ve blown it up with some matches, except that I wasn’t in the mood to vandalise such a robust machine. “What’s the point of breaking out of prison if you can’t even stay out?”, I moaned, resentful at higher authority.

With increased curiosity, the young congregation drew closer, until I could make out their faces; and for a few minutes, I just stared, and blinked, and stared at them again. A glint of recognition flickered on the girl with the blonde hair and red streaks’ face. I noticed a trail of smoke being procured under her wrist. She was hiding a cigarette. ‘Susan?’ She looked like she’d seen a ghost. She jogged over and knelt by me, with an assortment of emotions coming out on her face.

‘Hand it over, and pretend you never saw me.’ I stood up and ran, with her cheap burning tobacco in my hand, to the local school area and savoured my first smoke in ten years.

I didn’t have to wait for long till I heard the sirens.

***

Written as my ‘Major Short Story’ from Duke TIP’s estudies summer Short Fiction Workshop course.