Six Minutes

by Kaye Sebastian

“God, it's freezing!”

Monica tugged at her pocket until her hat came loose; she pulled its plush interior over her ears. Better. She glanced at her watch and simultaneously picked up her briefcase from the sidewalk in front of her apartment. 5:45 a.m. She calculated: Six minutes to make the four blocks to the train. She breathed deeply, calling the frigid air into her lungs. Yes, she was up to the challenge.

She took off at a sprint—her legs complained for the first minute, then settled into a rhythm. The cold groped its way into her parka. She'd forgotten to put on her gloves. No time to break stride.

“Hey, miss!”

The shout came from a block away. It reached her ears in a thread, half of it snatched away by the wind. She looked back. A vagrant in ripped jeans and tattered high tops was shouting at her. He waved his arms frantically.

Her guard went up. 5:47. It was still winter early-morning dark outside. The street was deserted. She picked up her pace.

‘Lady! Stop!”

His yelling was relentless, savage. She eyed her watch again. 5:49. Another block to the station. Her legs were searing, heavily encased in her boots. She cursed Mother Nature for the snow. She didn't turn around. The man was gaining on her.

Her breath came in heaves and gasps. From behind her, she heard the sounds of huffing and an occasional, “Wait up! I got something for you!”

Like hell you do, Monica thought. She willed her legs to move faster. The station was in sight.

“Bitch!”

Her heart was pumping to capacity now, out of both fear and exertion. “Make it to the station,” she pleaded with herself. She took the station stairs two at a time, grasping desperately at the railing. Just this flight up, she thought, then straight to the platform. She heard his footsteps as she reached the landing of the stairs.

“Jesus Christ, woman…”

She faced him, defiant, inching backwards as she shouted, “Let me alone, damn it! I'll scream, so help me, you bastard, I'll…”

Monica's last step was into nothingness as her right foot reached the platform's edge. Her left knee buckled in confusion. The train's whistle shrieked; a headlight pierced the air. In that instant, Monica caught the gaze of her pursuer. She saw anger, horror and fear—her own emotions. Her arms were useless, good only for flailing as she arched backwards, a broken-winged bird on its final flight. Sounds enveloped her: whistles wailing, brakes screaming, people crying. Silence.

The man in ripped jeans dropped to his knees. A businessman in a wool coat joined him, cell phone in hand. Several commuters gathered at the track's edge, their terror turned to fascination.

“I've dialed 911,” the wool-coated man said. “What the hell happened?”

The vagrant stared blankly ahead. “I don't know,” he mumbled. “I was just trying to return the glove she dropped a few blocks back.”