Black Cat

I measure my chances of survival on a one-year scale. One year didn’t seem like much time in summers past–driving my hot rod down Federal Boulevard through the warm night air–wasting time like it would never run out. One year passed and another came, like they always had.

But now twelve months seem impossible, and time grinds slow to an excruciating crawl. Each day stretches before me like a week, every hour is a day, and every minute is an hour. And as each second clicks grudgingly forward, it’s no consolation. In this land, the angel of death can show up in less than a heartbeat, and each day brings ample opportunity for me to die. The odds are stacked against my survival, and I still have over twenty-three million danger-filled seconds left. What will fate decree–am I to live, or die? With the persistence of a black cat scratching at my door, the question claws at my heart.

TB Stamper

 

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