The subway is beautifully disgusting, as always. The lingering smell of body odor and sweat, the feeling of a stranger’s skin brushing against your own, the way everyone’s voices morph together to form one violent buzz as if we’re all worker bees on our way to serve the queen herself. They say worker bees are simple-minded drones, working until they meet their demise. I envy that they’re able to escape life so quickly. I begin to profile the unfamiliar faces around me in an attempt to pass the time. Directly next to me stands a teenage boy, his hands gripping the worn grab-strap. Greasy mouse-brown hair avoids my gaze and those around him. Across from me sits an elderly gentleman, with cruel eyes and a deep frown. I count four pieces of hair, the rest of his head is covered in shingles. He appears to be glaring at me, but I’m starting to think that’s just his natural expression.
Before I can profile any more strangers, I feel a rough hand brush against my arm. Something stirs inside deep inside my mind, like a lightning strike of lost memories. My right eye begins to twitch. “What the fuck do you want?” I snap, immediately gasping in surprise. Did I say that? No, it didn’t sound like me. The owner of the hand doesn’t blink, nor does he speak. I decide to profile him. Mid-forties, around five-feet-eight-inches tall, gray eyes, face pale but oddly discolored and covered with sunspots. He’s thin, much too thin. He looks emancipated, like the starving rats that scutter through the alleyways. Skin looks stretched, as if it wasn’t made to fit his face. He has dark hair, almost black, and it has been neatly styled. Wearing a black pinstripe suit, recently ironed, and paired with impeccable patent leather dress shoes.
I stare at his mouth for a few seconds as my right eye continues to spasm. His smile is wide and toothy. It stretches from ear to ear, as much as humanly possible. “Hello!” The man shouts, despite my face being less than two feet from his own. I raise an eyebrow in reply. “Hello!” He repeats. Before I can open my mouth to speak, he continues shouting. “Hello! Hello, sir! Have you seen it? Have you seen it yet? Have you?” He speaks quickly, and a bit of his saliva lands on my cheek. I risk a glance at the people around and see that they’ve all turned to face the subway windows. Their mouths are still moving, but I can only hear the smiling man shouting. He hasn’t stopped repeating himself “Have you seen it? Have you seen it yet? Have you? Hello, sir!” My left eye begins throbbing. “What the fuck are you talking about?” I shout over him. The man ignores my question and continues his chanting. His eyes are wide and bulging now and streaked with red as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. He begins to talk even faster, his words incomprehensible.
As I prepare to turn around and push my way through the sweaty bodies in an effort to get away from him, he falls silent. I don’t think he’s blinked yet. I can tell because his bloodshot eyes are watering profusely, the liquid dripping off the tip of his nose. He’s no longer smiling. I’m not sure if the existence or lack of his smile disturbs me more. “Have you seen it?” The man whispers with dry cracked lips. I suddenly realize the strange quiet around me. The buzzing of the worker bees has ceased. “Seen what?” I ask, sounding breathless. I see the people of the subway out of my peripheral vision; they’re all staring at me; their mouths open in deaf screams. “It has certainly seen you.” The man whispers. Before I can react, he pulls out a small black handgun and presses it against his left temple. All at once, the silence is broken. I hear a blast, and then a loud ringing noise. Both my right and left eyes throb, and I feel something wet splash my cheek. The man grins at me one last time with what is left of his mutilated face before slumping onto the seats next to him.