04

Steps mix with so many others, and the metal staircase creaks through the hasty race of the one I assume to be the armed man.

“Bring this mother fucker here.” A crawling sound approaches dangerously where I am. I cover my lips with one hand and hold my breath, praying that the advertising panels that reflect the entire surroundings of the station do not put me in focus. “Did you think you could escape from me, bastard?”

A dusty, mean and unpleasant laugh reverberates in my bones, and I finally gain the courage to look at the reflection on the panels on the other side. A bald man with an imposing leather jacket leans over a shady body on the floor. Two other men remain on their backs, each looking to one side. One of them even approaches the yellow band, but doesn't bother to look down. Almost sigh relieved, however, when the body stretched on the ground moans and moves, the anguish dominates me again.

“I thought you knew where you were getting into, Hunter. You can only stop working for me when I say I don't need you anymore.”

The man on the floor doesn't answer. It shows no sign of life other than incoherent grumbling and attempts to move away. He can't make men stop hostilities, and when the armed man returns, my stomach is wrapped in the bitter taste of bile. I fear for the life of the unknown, and even more for mine, because I know that I will not leave here until the group is sure that there is no survivor to watch their crime.

“But you know the funniest thing, my friend? I just decided that I no longer need your services.”

Another bang that deafens me, another shot. And the shock haunts me in such a way that I start to tremble compulsively, desperate and distressed. Even when I try to control myself so as not to draw attention, my feet that rest on the tracks tremble at an absurd speed. I swallow the cry and force air into my lungs, still covering my mouth with trembling hands.

The tremor in my body becomes more intense, uncontrollable. The shock gives way to understanding in a matter of moments, and I suddenly turn my head to the left, where the light of the subway headlights run at full speed to meet me.

The gnashing of the brakes completely stuns me and I am no longer able to control my horror. Dying crushed doesn't seem like a good solution at this time, but taking a shot so little seems attractive for a Friday night. Terrified and unstable like a green stick, I decide to face the consequences of being a snooster who was in the wrong place and at the wrong time, and jump away from the rails in time to feel the breath of air messing up my hair with the speed with which the subway approaches.

I fall with my back on the icy floor, and it takes a while of numbness to remember the men, but I can't find them anywhere I can look for. There is no sign that they were here, ignoring the dead policeman a few meters from the main pillar, a passenger fallen on the first steps of the staircase and the unconscious man next to me.

I'm panting and with my eyes stuck in the ceiling lights, trying to find any plausible explanation for this night's hell. My confusion does not allow me to react in any other way than crying and laughing. Or cry from laughing so much, at this point, I have no idea what I'm doing to myself.

The subway goes to your stop, and suddenly I know that it can be considered pure selfishness, or self-preservation, but as the only living witness, I have no way to prove that I am not guilty and I seriously think about the possibility of running away. Besides, denying help is a crime anyway. Staying or not staying will cause me problems that I can't stand. I only have five seconds of insane courage to discover my next step.

I remember how lost I am already, and how much this can get worse with a record in the police, and again I'm acting like a coward. I stand on a heel, fix my clothes and my shaggy hair with one hand. My contradictory reactions only prove the intensity of my momentary emotional instability. I can't help the police when I can't help solve my own life myself.

On the other hand, I can forget this night without any difficulty. In fact, forgetting problems is the only thing I really know how to do. This is why there is the emptiness inside my chest; to keep the events that I pertinently refuse to remember.

The subway still doesn't have its doors open, and I feel relieved to have time to escape. My cowardice is so great that it leaves me oblivious to my overcoat stuck in something on the floor, and even abruptly pulling one side with my hand, the tip does not come loose.

Angry, I turn under my heels and mention bending down, and that's when I realize that the man shot and with his face formed by ripples - certainly from the beating he had taken - has opened one of his swollen and purplish eyes.

The eye is shaken by a grotesque dark circles, dueling with the color of its iris of an intense green, dotted with amber tones. I venture to say that this is the most beautiful color I have seen in my entire life, and I do not fail to notice how the subject's brown and long hair perfectly adorns his genetic beauty. In addition, I can't tell if the cracked lips on an extensive scar, and the twisted nose at a strange angle live up to what I can see. Anyway, I'm not able to admit my cowardice right now. Not as long as he keeps this eye on me.

Squeaky screams make me sure that the passengers who arrived from the subway realized the situation, and my conscience screams against my desire to run away. Despite the vulnerable appearance and the absurd amount of blood covering his clothes, the man does not let me go, and maybe I should thank him for not letting me take such an inhumane attitude.

But I don't have time to do anything. In an instant his hand that holds me slides to the floor, and the black tattoo of a cross between his thumb and forefinger fingers enchant my eyes with the same intensity as his look is capable.

Still looking at me, the stranger with a disfigured face seeks the air in a nasal breath, and, spitting blood and saliva, begs:

“Don't let me die, please.”