Hell or Heaven

“Come on, dance Mik.”
I shake my head. I would not define dancing as rubbing my ass up and down against some strangers’ front. “Actually, I’m fried; after all the adrenaline and stuff.” I laugh weakly before realizing I was being completely ignored. Well, they’re mouths were both pretty occupied; so snatching my lemonade off the counter I slip by, unnoticed.
“It’s ok.” I toss over my shoulder. “I can find my own way home.”
Once I shoved my way across the body-packed nightclub and stepped out into the cool night air, I could feel my lungs open up again and the perspiration freeze on my hot feverish skin. I just wasn’t made for this kind of stuff, I think, shouldering on my trusty army jacket over my bare arms.
Hitching my black noodle dress – I know, very lady-like, I start down the road towards the vague direction of my house. As I pass Jasmine’s red mini cooper, I give one of the wheels a jab with the point of my heel; succeeding in nothing but a bruised toe. I wouldn’t be walking for 5 miles in stiletto heels if I had passed my driver’s test a few weeks before – or the 13 other times before it.
I walk down the silent streets. Where was everybody? I wonder. It is way past midnight, but hey, this is New York: the city that never sleeps. Then the answer came falling in from the sky. I must have been too absorbed in my self-pity and grumbling that I hadn’t noticed the huge formidable cloud that loomed above.
Why does god hate me?
I sprint the next 5 seconds before thunder crashes in and I’m drenched. Mascara dripping and hair flopping, I stomp on; cursing Jasmine and my driving skills more vehemently than ever.
I’m in the middle of my longest sentence of curses ever when I notice a vague black figure unmoving in the distance. It lay limp and still in the middle of the road.
My heart skips a beat.
“Hey there.” I cry out, stupidly. My head is telling me to run and check if this poor man is still alive; but my body is paralyzed. So what if he is still alive, I still wouldn’t be able to save him. I desperately try to fish out the memory of my last swimming rescue lesson but it all comes back a blur.
Well, I couldn’t just leave him there.
I jump out of my heels and sprint towards the body as fast as my dress would let me.
“Sir,” I howl over the next clap of thunder.
Please be alive. Please, god, please.
Crawling down on all fours, I prod him nervously on the shoulder.
He doesn’t move.
My mind goes blank but my body goes into a fit of frenzy.
I pump his chest, felt his pulse (nothing), and was about to do mouth to mouth when suddenly, his eyes burst open and I shriek, throwing my head back as far away as possible.
“What in the-.” He roars, looking as confused as I felt. Slowly, and with palpable pain, he got to both knees, and gradually to both feet. Now that he wasn’t curled up on the floor, I hadn’t noticed how huge he was, nearly two heads above me – and I’m pretty tall.
He’s alive, was all I was thinking, and also: I saved him, too, of course.
“I thought you were dead.” I cry. And that’s when I finally noticed the pool of blood at his feet, all over his clothes, and mine. “You’re bleeding.” I say, shocked. His eyes flickered in a momentary moment of surprise, but he doesn’t even glance down at the gaping wound on his stomach, but stays on me.
“What did you do.” I rush to him and blanch. The wound wasn’t a wound. It was a huge freaking tunnel that ran from the front of his stomach, to the back. I could even see the bright yellow mini van in the distance behind him. “How,” I utter. “How are you still alive.”
The man doesn’t answer, just stares down at me with these eyes of improbable grey and coldness that makes me seize up. Then, slowly, he turns those eyes towards the sky and says:
“This is for you brother.”
And there’s a knife in his hand.
And I’m trying to compute.
But failing.
He thrusts it forward, with one large hand on my shoulder.
And I try to stop it.
But it’s too fast.
Impossibly fast.
And it sinks right in the middle of my chest.
And then there’s pain.
And blackness.