The Writer’s Notebook
Part 1
I hear a sound as if something heavy fell on the floor downstairs.
I turn off the computer and leave it as I found it. I switch off the light and slip into the corridor towards the door to the stairways. The steps on the floor are creaky, the sound of old and sturdy wood. I hear someone on the other side of the door.
I opened the door and it swings open really wide, and the old man flies right in, knocking me to the floor. I’m under him trying to get him off me, and I notice a warm pool of wet sticky stuff on the floor. I thrust the old man to the side, and he skidded on the floor to the other side. I roll over the opposite way and jump to my feet. I barely avoid a blow, as a goon in a motorcycle helmet with dark visor throws bolo at me. It’s a tagalog itak used by farmers which resembles a short sword machete. It stuck at the floor on an angle. He takes out a butterfly knife, and lunges at me thrusting upward.
I managed to upright my stance and block his knife thrust, but his force backed me up to the wall. I knee him, and he is moved backwards for the time being. But he still has the knife firm in hand. My problem is simple, if he thrusts at my heart and I dodge right, then I have another minute of life to live as if I didn’t avoid it at all. However, if he is reading my mind, if he is a professional, he lunges at me with a slight fake to the left, then he should be able to plunge that knife deep into my torso with a penetrating wound to my lungs and heart. It’s only seconds but it seems like we’ve been trying to read each other’s mind for a long time. His mind I am sure is one that is amused as if he has already won, and me, with the classic thought of one who is doomed. There’s a slight twitch in his right shoulder, which signaled me he will lunge within a second. I just react and jump all the way to the left. He missed, and the knife hits the wooden wall. I get up and turn towards him. His decision is whether to take the knife out of the wall, with the visor up or down. He must have had so much force because the knife is stuck so much in the wall, that he needs to put his foot against the wall and to pull on the knife with both hands.
For some reason my sense of urgency is calmed by this site. I propel myself forward and lunge at him. Wrong move. He stepped sideways and eluded me. I crash face down on the floorboard while he goes back trying to pull the knife, which he finally succeeds in doing so.
I get up and try to run to the door to go down the stairways but I slide on the slippery surface. Blood from the old man. Damn! I crash on my knees. My back is to the knife-man I gambled twisting to the right hoping he would be attacking me to the left. I feel the knife slice up my rib cage as I hit the floor once again. You can’t defend yourself when you are down. I turn facing upwards with my back to the floor. My worst fear appears before me. He has picked up the itak stuck from the floor and leaps towards me. I raise my right foot upwards and kept it there for a split second. I hear a scream and a loud groan which is familiar to all men as my assailant’s testicles hit the heel of my shoe, and his agony is covered by the visor of the helmet. The itak drops to my side. He rolls over and struggles to the door and stammers to the stairs having trouble standing, breathing, and thinking. I hear him slumping through the stairways and get outside.
My knees are paralyzed because of the way I landed on them. My pool of blood is now on the floor mixing with the old man’s blood. I am skidding on the floor trying to make my way to the old man. Then I hear the roar of the motorcycle and listen to it ride off. No good. He’s dead. The throat slipped from end to end.
I clutch my ribs and make my way to the bathroom. I put my hand in the sink, and the pink ooze of blood goes down the drain. Here’s the moment of truth. Who do I call? Should I call the Major? He’s probably in one of hs clubs. I shouldn’t call an ambulance, since there really is none around. I get my wallet out, and call “his” number from the Embassy. I dial the cell phone. I don’t know if it was his direct number. Someone answers on the other line. I speak in short sentences, and gasps of pain and tell them where I am and what happened. I lie on the floor and life begins to slip away. The feeling is not unpleasant. Although before I lose conscience I am tormented by the question in my mind. What happens next?
Poll
