He looks at me, and I see it in his eyes. I’m not much longer for this world, I suppose, so nothing I say can really make this any worse. Today was already going badly, but none of that matters now.

“Um, so, are you going to kill me?” What a stupid question! He’s holding a bloody knife, I just watched him stab my employer and the guy who shares a desk with me, and he just screamed that he was going to kill everyone in this room… I’m the last one standing, so obviously I’m next.

He just kind of looks at me. I’m sitting in my chair with my laptop open in front of me because that’s where I was when he walked in. At the time, sudden movements seemed too dangerous, but now the shock coursing through me and the dread weighing me down makes it impossible to move from my seat. He barricaded the door and is standing in between me and the exit anyway, so there wouldn’t be much point to trying to run anyway.

He tilts his head, seemingly curious why I just so cooly just asked him this literal life-or-death question. He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing above Mark, and my brain has started taking note of all the details I missed in the frenzy of the last 5 minutes. He has Carla’s name badge in the hand not holding the knife. She works the desk downstairs, so he passed by her on his way up here. I pray that he only minimally harmed her- or maybe he just stole it!- so as not to cause a scene downstairs. Obviously he’s crazed. He’s got that look in his eye, the one that says he’s unpredictable, could do anything. For the first time I realize that the hand that wholes the knife is shaking, that he looks a little pale and his eyes keep shifting to the bodies of Mark and Sean. Come to think of it, he hasn’t really made eye contact with me for more than a millisecond. Are you kidding me? HE’S scared? Okay buddy, it’s not like you’re the one holding the knife.

As I finish my assessment of him, frustration building (you know what, frustration is better than feeling the fear pulsing through me), he finally speaks.

“I want to.”

UMMMM, OKAY??? I wait for more of a response, but one doesn’t come. He looks at me for another few moments, then starts rambling uncontrollably.

“I can feel it, you know? The blood on my hands, it’s sticky. And warm? But it’s not as warm now. I want to kill you, I do. Believe me, that’s all I can think about right now. But something has me standing here. For some reason, I just can’t do it. I mean, I will. But you’re supposed to be screaming, crying, begging me not to kill you? WHY are you so calm?”

He finally moves, and surprisingly I don’t flinch. But he doesn’t move toward me, he paces from side to side. At this point, Mark’s body is a wall between me and the killer, and I’m not convinced he’s going to be able to step over him to reach me.

“So, here’s what I’m thinking. I think you don’t believe that I’m going to kill you. And it would be a lot more interesting if you were as invested in this as me. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to give you 5 minutes to convince me not to kill you, and at the end of those five minutes I’m going to do it.”

He takes three strides toward me, grabs the collar of my shirt, and slices the skin right above my left collarbone. Blood runs down into my shirt.

“Your five minutes start now.”

I know now. I know now that he will kill me. All this waiting, it’s not be cause he’s scared. He wants me to beg. He wants me to cry and plead for my life. His hands shake, but that is from the rush he receives from watching the life drain from his victim’s face. I will not give him the satisfaction of turning me into a blithering mess in my last moments. I take a deep breath and raise my eyes to his.

“What’s your name?” I ask him. “I won’t be alive to tell anyone, so what’s your name?”

“Aaron” he tells me.

4 minutes 45 seconds

I wait a beat, then say “Aaron, do you mind if I have a smoke?” I pull my pack of cigarettes from the pocket of my coat and hold one out to him. “You want one?”

He declines my oh-so-gracious offer, and watches as I light my cigarette and take a slow drag, then blow out the smoke the way my daddy taught me to. I look at him again.

“So Aaron, how’d you get into the business? Killing run in the family?”

Aaron leans toward me and smiles. For the first time, I realize how white his teeth are.

“Listen, girl. You’re supposed to be talking. You have 4 minutes left to live. You really wanna waste them asking me questions? No. I’m listening…”

This is when I decide that not only will I keep my head raised high, but I will not bow to his wishes. I stare him straight in the eyes and go silent.

3 minutes left.

2:45.

2 and a half minutes left. Half of the time is gone. At this point, Aaron starts to run the tip of the knife down my left arm, starting from the collarbone it was previously resting on. I stare him in the eyes as he does it, unflinching. He finishes.

2 minutes

I pray. On the outside, I must look neutral, unbothered, content.

1 minute

We stare at each other, too close, but this moment is too tense for either of us to make a move. I know that this is my last time experiencing human touch, and there’s a knife to my throat. Part of me wishes he would kill me already, because I know beyond a doubt that no one is coming to save me.

30 seconds

I’ve never been good with silence. It pains me, almost more than the cuts still oozing blood.

10, 9, 8…

The seconds tick closer in my head, but still I refuse to beg, plead, and barter. Instead, I offer one last statement.

“Aaron, these were good men. They have families, and they will be missed. I will be missed. I hope you think about that while you rot in your prison cell.”

My world goes dark, but only for a moment.

Goodbye.