Time Stands Still

The sound of the horn on the 3:00 train from Newark assaults my ears. The man in front of me snarls, and when I see the torchlight gleam off of the silver of his blade, I know what it’s going to be this time. I sigh. I hate it when it’s a knife. Getting killed with a knife always hurts the most. The night before, that gang from New Jersey drowned me in the Delaware. Surprisingly, drowning has become one of my favorite ways to die. Peaceful. Also, a big favorite: a bullet to the brain. I never even feel it when that happens. But knives. I hate it when they kill me with knives.

The man charges me. I’m as aware as he is that the now empty platform won’t be empty long, and he’s taking advantage of the opportunity before it vanishes into a sea of witnesses.

Instinctively, I back up and lose my footing.

We both careen over the edge of the platform and onto the train tracks. I feel him scream as much as I hear him.

No knife death tonight, I think gratefully, just as the front wheels of the train’s engine car reduce both of our heads to human pancakes.

---

I wake with a start.

I’m in my room. I look beside the bedside table. A black clock sits on the dresser: 7:14. I know it will ring in a moment, so I reach over and find the mechanism to turn off the alarm.