The trains roar above and below. They never stop here.
Never above and below, and never in the dark station where I am raising and dropping my knife, raising and dropping my knife, again and again into the bloody hollow that is hardly anything like a man’s chest anymore.
Only the light at the end of the platform pops and flickers, and slick, eely glimmers slither down the slope of his lungs, a crater almost as deep as cement, pooling and coiling where I’ve made sure there’s nothing left of his heart.
Blood swings down from the knife’s next raise. Patters across what’s left of his vinyl jacket. The chest-proud white word SAFETY, punched through to nothing but S and Y and tatters. The lantern on his hip, with the clanking shutters that could narrow its light to a cold, cutting beam, is still dark. I was quicker than him.
I don’t know why he came. No train stops here. I could have told him that, but he reached for his lantern.
And the thought of the light filled me with horror. And I had the knife in my hand, I always have it, so I saved myself.
He didn’t look surprised to see me. Afraid, right before the knife fell, but not surprised. Why not? The trains never stop here. What am I waiting for?
I straddle the pit I’ve made of his body. With the knife still in one hand, I never drop it, even as, with the other, I rip the lantern from his belt.
Even though the cold metal burns my fingers. The words engraved on its shade are hateful, they hurt to look at, so I toss it onto the dead tracks, before they can try to tell me what they mean by ‘Exorcism Special’.
