Short Stories

Sixty Seconds

   One minute—60 seconds—90 heartbeats. The tick of the clock from 5:07 to 5:08. As a concept, a minute seems benign; a minute isn’t nearly enough time to accomplish anything, and thus a singular minute in history is pointless. Those nicer time frames—five minutes, ten minutes, 30 minutes, one hour—those are the ones that matter. I beg to differ, but maybe that’s due to my mood; I’ve always felt defiant after listening to rock music.

   It’s 6:06 pm, one of those terrible times where the minute isn't set on a pretty number like zero or five. Glancing over my shoulder, I watch as the curtains silently sway with the summer breeze. Looking at curtains doesn't settle the twisting feeling in my stomach or calm the tornado of thoughts in my mind, however much I might wish it could.

Four seconds, five heartbeats.

   I rub my temples with my fingers as I stand up from the desk, pushing the chair back with my foot. The chair makes an awful sound as it’s pushed away on the wood floors. I’m not sure what’s gotten into me, but every second now feels pertinent. I can’t waste a breath in this terrible moment in the terrible time of 6:06 pm.

Nine seconds, twelve heartbeats.

   The door is about five feet from my desk, and it doesn’t take long to get to the doorway. It feels like an eternity, though, as if every step I’m making is causing a tremor. At the doorway I look out into the hallway, glancing at the light filtering through the window. Milo stares at me from the end of the hallway, his pointed ears twitching and his long tail swaying.

Fifteen seconds, twenty one heartbeats.

   Milo scampers away into the living room as I walk down the hall, stuffing my hands into my pockets. I’ve walked down this hallway at least a hundred times, but this time feels different. Not unusual or concerning, just different. I can’t remember where I was looking before, but I divert my eyes when I realize I’m staring at the lamp in the living room.

Twenty seconds, twenty eight heartbeats.

   The clock in the living room reads the same as the office clock: it’s still 6:06 pm. I haven’t eaten dinner yet—I’ve been in my office since I got home two hours ago—so I open the fridge. I linger in the cool air of the open fridge as I aimlessly grab for a container. Leftovers never taste good to me, but I figure it’s too late to make a new meal now. I pop the top off of the Tupperware and grab for a plate.

Thirty three seconds, forty six heartbeats.

   Waiting for leftovers to heat up in the microwave is the most mundane thing I can fathom. I rest my elbows on the kitchen counter and rest my eyes on the dim-lit knife rack. A few are missing from their place, used and in the dishwasher with other dirty silverware and used plates. I think about nothing for a bit until my mind drifts to something tangible.

Thirty nine seconds, fifty four heartbeats.

    I think about the past month, and in retrospect realize it was painfully boring. I visited my parents in London, I edited at least fifty different pieces, and I saw my sister—who still calls me ‘Leon the lion’ even though she coined the nickname when I was eight—and that was all I did. I think I might be painfully boring, that it’s not life that’s mundane, it’s me. I should try to get over my angst.

Forty three seconds, sixty heartbeats.

    Milo suddenly perks up and hisses intently, turning the corner into the kitchen. He stares at me and hisses, ears bending back. I can’t read Milo as much as I say I can: I’m not a cat-whisperer, Milo is a mystery to me. “What is it, Milo?” I ask him. Milo hisses at me and I hear a soft thud. It sounds like a footfall, but living alone inclines me to think its the television remote falling off of its perch on the top of the couch.

Fifty seconds, seventy one heartbeats.

    I move from the counter to the living room, expecting to see the remote control on the carpet. The remote is still on the couch, though, laying upside down. I hear the sound again. I realize I’m not alone in my own house.

Fifty six seconds, eighty heartbeats.

    I breathe. I just breathe. I try to calm down and breathe, because it’s probably Skylar. Skylar’s the only one that has a key to the house that isn’t a family member; he’s been my friend for so long that a year ago I just gave him a key to my house so he could come over whenever he liked. I hear the footfalls approaching, and I don’t really see who it is before I crumple to the ground.

Fifty eight seconds, eighty five heartbeats.

    I feel it more than I’ve felt anything before. It’s odd and it’s sharp and it’s unbelievably painful. I look down and my chest heaves, and my headache escalates such that it feels like I’ve been hit by an oncoming train. I’ve never liked blood, seeing the crimson red color makes me absolutely queasy, but now I don’t feel such an urge to vomit when I look at the deep gash in my chest. It’s probably because I’m too overwhelmed by the hurt and trying to think. God, it burns. I try to think of my mom. My dad. My sister. Milo. My friends. My job. My boss. I don’t feel anything, though. Maybe it’s due to my denial. I can’t accept that I’ve been stabbed or that I’m dying. I’m not, right?
My neighbour’s home, so she heard my scream, she probably called the cops and the ambulance. Did I scream? It’s hard to think. It's 6:07 pm.

Sixty seconds, ninety heartbeats.