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Muscle Movement

 

“Don’t move a muscle! “The man in the woolly balaclava shouts.

You are startled. The most exciting thing that has ever happened in all the years you’ve been coming to this bank was that time the third teller from the left smiled at you. She almost always scowls. You noticed that her mouth hung open oddly when you entered today. Then you saw the gun. Then you heard the shout.

“Don’t move a muscle!”

You are startled. Your arms wave spasmodically, instinctive, unbidden, and unwelcome – like the man in the woolly balaclava. And his gun. Unwelcome.  

He is startled, too, by your movement. You see a puff of gas and tiny shards of gun powder, like the slow-motion shots in your favourite TV show, CSI. And, although though this is not a tv show, life switches to slo mo. You smell cordite and lead. Moments pass. You hear a percussive bang. Hours pass. You feel the searing heat of the bullet as it enters your chest.  

Time ceases to be measurable at any speed. The world reveals itself to you in maddening burps and blips until you recognize a pattern. A sound. Ha-kush, ha-kush, ha kush.  And a voice, vibrant, young and impossibly perky.

“Good morning!  How are we today? Time for your morning ablutions!”  

You cannot see the speaker. She is a blurring blip. Cannot feel her wet the sponge and swipe at your privacy. Cannot smell. No air passes through your olfactory sensors. Ha-kush, ha-kush, ha-kush.

Hearing is all you’ve got left. “Good morning! Good morning! Good morning!”  You tell yourself to grin and bear it. But you cannot grin.

You cannot move a muscle.

 


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