This is my first attempt at a Five Minute Friday post. I trembled as I wrote this, partly because of the ticking clock, and partly because of what happened to me on just another night in New York City.
Manhattan. 1996. It must have been 12:30 am. I was getting off work, and had taken my typical 7-block trek across Midtown. I approached the 15 or 20 glass doors that formed the giant mouth for the people entering Port Authority to catch their trains, buses, or cabs.
As I opened one of the glass doors, a man was sprinting—full speed— through the tiled concourse, toward my door. He was followed closely by NYPD.
I backed out of the way as he slammed into the door itself—and sent me flying backwards. The cops sprinted after him.
It was dark. It was late. I was dog tired.
I got on the bus, and drifted off to sleep on the half hour ride under the Hudson River to my apartment in New Jersey.
I walked into my apartment, and slipped into the bathroom. I turned on the light, and looked in the mirror.
As plain as could be, the left side of my chest had a perfect bloody handprint on it.