Terrence At Two

It’s two in the morning and until the break of dawn, man is an island. The still air breaks and the sound of leaves could very well be rushed steps. Pitch black wraps around the florescent halos of street lamps and it’s all too much. The world seems to invite paranoia and Terrence finds it’s a rather courteous guest. It sustains him with the absolutely false knowledge that murderers, rapists, and darker shades of Satan lurk in the shadows. There is no uncertainty. Terrence lives and breathes in 2am.

Twenty seven hours ago, Terrence awoke and swore off sleep as he tended to do between getting his fix. He is hopelessly addicted to the stuff and he often fears it will be the end of him. Terrence is the kind of guy who thinks that being conscious keeps you safe. He’s wrong but he does feel safe. He is also starking raving mad and roving Market Street with a fillet knife. It’s neatly tucked away in his messenger bag but in his current state, that is much too close.

The shadows are creeping in and Terrence is feeling cold sweat coming over him  again. He mistakes the feeling for premonition. He’s toying with the towel inside the messenger bag. Inside his towel is his knife. Inside his head, are scenarios where he would have to stab, slash or thrust. They’re incredibly detailed and all worked out carefully so he is always the prevailing hero.

He hears steps and things get out of hand. In his right and lucid mind, he’d know that those steps were most likely high heels. That mind left fifteen hours ago and hasn’t been heard from since. He’s got his hand on the hilt, the threadbare towel sits at the bottom of the bag. The click clack keeps coming and Terrence is sure the bell tolls for him.

She’s four paces behind him and Terrence eases his hand out of the messenger bag.

“Where’s the bus stop?”

He turns to find a slender pale woman in a little black dress with her feet crammed into a pair of stilettos. She’s a martini short of falling down and obviously a stranger to the city. She’s also apparently out of coverage range or at least her outward and upward right arm could construe that. Her phone may be off.

“Anywhere there is a blue sign with a yellow dot.”

“Okay, when is the next bus?”

“Four hours, I think.”



She leaves furious towards a bathroom that she is sure exists despite it’s refusal to. He feels that chill again and hopes the four hour pass without incident. He’s got his hand back in the bag. Things are getting out of hand again.