The Creeping Hands and Frowning Face

            Peter felt as if his heart was going to explode in his chest. He hadn’t run that hard or for that long in years. He had thought his days of running like his life depended on it were over. Somehow he was wrong, and sooner than he thought. He was gasping to catch his breath and sweat was dripping off his chin. The other train riders just looked at him like he was some sort of inhuman monster. None of them were kind enough to offer him a seat as it was pretty clear that he was having trouble catching his breath. He continued to gasp and try to pull in long refreshing breaths. He wanted his heart to stop beating so heard in his chest. It was ringing in his years and he could feel his pounding, rapid pulse in his eyes.

            He felt like he was on fire. Or at least, what he thought being on fire must feel like. Well, not the burning part. That part must be horrible. The part where the fire consumes all the oxygen and you can’t breathe so you suffocate, in addition to burning.  It’s a truly horrible way to go. Peter wondered if the people on the train would even notice if he was actually on fire. There were all so involved in their make-up, iPhones, newspapers, books and general boring mélange that the flickering flames of his smoldering corpse probably wouldn’t faze them. Although someone might complain about the smell as someone almost always does. 

            The conductor was walking through the train collecting fares and Peter rummaged through his pockets and produced his ticket to show he was a daily rider. His hands felt weak and his arms were tired from his intense sprint from nearly a block and a half away. He thought he had more time at a brisk walking pace to make it to the train, but it surprised him by arriving two minutes early. He was just lucky he hadn’t stopped for the morning paper as was his normal routine. The newspaper box was empty so he didn’t stop to mess with it. He thought about the little things in life that happen that way.

            If the newspaper box had been full, he would have stopped for the paper, which would have made him miss the train, which would have resulted in his death. It was just crazy how those little things happened. It was a strange connection of coincidences and happenstance to result in his making the train and living for another day. His would-be killer must be wondering how he got away. His would-be killer should have filled the newspaper box.

            Peter took another long, deep breath and felt a heat in his chest. He started to worry that he might have broken a blood vessel in his lungs or something and he was slowly going to drown in his own blood. He thought that his killer might have won after all, if indirectly. Peter felt himself starting to settle down. He was still sweating heavily but he was able to draw a longer breath and get himself a little more under control. He started thinking about the fact that he’d been smoking since he was eleven years old and that might be a contributing factor to his current difficulty. It was strange, but even though he was still trying to catch his breath, he had a craving for a cigarette. A smooth cigarette to calm his frazzled nerves would the thing. It was too bad you couldn’t smoke on the train anymore, or anywhere for that matter.

            The train rocked side to side on the train tracks as it approached the downtown station and Peter moved from where he was standing/leaning against the train car wall toward the exit. He was still feeling weak in the legs from his run and simply couldn’t believe how badly he was out of shape. He was just glad his would-be killer had counted on his perceived inability to run. Otherwise he’d be bleeding all over this train car instead of just breathing heavy all over it.

            His would-be killer was nothing of the sort though. It didn’t care what shape he was in. His would-be killer was time. Time was always after Peter. It was the monster chasing him down the hall into his parent’s bedroom as a boy and the beast lurking under his bed. Time was the taker of life over short increments. It was a slow killer, a fast killer, a lumbering killer and a swift killer. Peter had outrun it for now, but the next time he might not be so lucky.

            The train pulled into the station and Peter was able to push himself toward his next destination. He still needed to hurry but he didn’t have Time lurking over his shoulders anymore. There was an ambulance parked across the street from the train station in front of a little coffee shop. Peter could see the paramedics working on a man who was lying on the floor in the coffee shop. The EMT’s were giving the man CPR and chest compressions. Peter kept walking passed. It seemed Time had claimed someone else in his place. Peter shuddered and put his head down toward his destination.