Friday, August 24, 2012
The water in the faucet stops dripping. Suspended in the air are
little droplets.
They almost look
like tears.
The guy selling
cereal on TV has this frozen smile, which would be creepy if you didn’t know
that he smiled like that because he was chewing chunks of Choco Knacks.
On the table where
I sit, a glass of hot cocoa teeters over the edge but stops midway, its steaming
contents stilled. The owner of the cocoa is my sister. She, too, is stilled
mid-scream.
They say that
during times of crisis our brain gives us a sense of being in slow-motion. In
my case, time didn’t just slow down. It stopped.
I cannot move any part
of my body but I can see. And think.
Whatever chemical
it is that keeps my mind in this state; it seems my body has plenty of it. I
have been this way for some time now and I am thankful. Thankful, because it
has given me time to scream, even if it was only in my head.
The last direction
I cast my eyes towards before time stopped was at the man in black. I notice
how the balaclava over his head is stereotypical, almost comical. How he holds
his right hand over his head. How a wicked knife glistens in his grasp. How,
just a few inches away from him, my mother is holding her arms in front of her
face trying to protect herself.
There is blood all
over. She already has a few stab wounds on her arms. They don’t look too deep,
maybe because she was thrashing around too wildly or because the man was
surprised to find people in the house. His next blow doesn’t look like it will
lack confidence. His next blow will kill my mother.
I curse in my mind.
All of this is my fault. We are all going to die by this man’s hands because of
me.
We live in the part
of the city where crime is so rampant that even the police are scared to patrol
the streets alone. Knowing this, I still came home late and forgot to lock the back door.
The man in black
probably thought that there was no one in the house. We have to turn off most
of the lights to save on the electricity bill. The only light we have on is the
small fluorescent bulb over the dining table; that is, if you don’t count the
TV, which stays on mute whenever we eat dinner. My mother tells me this is
because she wants us to have a decent conversation.
We were actually
having a decent one before the man came. I thought that this time we actually
had a shot at piecing the family back together after my father left.
Turns out I was
wrong. Because of me, my family will never have another chance at conversation.
We will never have a chance to mend our wounds and pick up the pieces.
I notice that water
is beginning to ooze out of the faucet like syrup. The cereal man’s smile
begins to fade. I know that in the next part of the commercial he will be
downing a glass of milk. Steam begins to rise from the now wobbling glass of
cocoa.
Time, ever so
slowly, is beginning to flow again. Whatever chemical my brain is on is running out. Soon my mother will be dead and then my
sister and I will come next. I feel more helpless than I have ever been. All I
have been able to do is sit and watch even when I know in the next few moments
everyone I have ever loved will be taken away from me.
But…is this all I
can really do?
I try to move my
eyes and find out I can. The nearest weapon I can find is a small, serrated
knife we used to cut steak with when we could afford it. This will do. I will
my hand to reach for it and I find out it responds. However, the movement is
viscous, like the water from the tap.
My eyes dart
towards the TV. The cereal man is raising the glass of milk to his lips. His
movements are very slow at first, but they pick up speed little by little.
Time is easing its
way back to normal.
The small knife is
now in my grip. The man in black is bringing his knife down on my mother. With
all my willpower, I tell my legs to move and they do. Faster. Faster. Faster!
Before I know it, I
am back in real time and I slam into the man in black, knocking the weapon out
of his hand. We are on the floor, grappling for control of my small steak knife,
which now sticks out of his ribs.
He pins me to the
ground with his knee. I am aware that he is much bigger than I am and I don’t
have a shot at overpowering him. He struggles to pull out the small knife.
Perhaps the serrated edge has caught on one of his ribs. I see the blade begin
to give. I will be dead in a few seconds.
I close my eyes and
wait for it.
The blow never
comes. I open my eyes to find that time has stopped once again.
I feel a ballpoint
pen poking my leg from the inside of my left pants pocket. I can reach it
before the man can pull out the knife from his ribs. I notice how his balaclava
has small slits made for his eyes. Indeed, the pen is mightier than the sword.
As I wait for time
to start flowing again, I realize that even in the interim I am never
helpless.
