Breath 15
Tom’s breath caught in his throat.
For a moment—just a split-second—his brain refused to process what he was seeing.
The sound came first: a faint, desperate cry for help, slicing through the muted clatter of the kitchen.
Heart hammering, Tom rushed toward the back door, flinging it open without thinking.
And that's when he saw it.
The Indian guy—slumped against the pavement,
blood soaking the front of his shirt,
the red stain blooming outward like some terrible flower.
And standing over him—his wife.
A bloody knife clutched in her trembling hand.
“Shit—” Tom choked out, instinct wrenching him back into motion.
He stumbled backward into the kitchen, sneakers skidding on the slick tile.
Panic hit him like a freight train.
Should he run outside? Try to help? But she still had the knife.
Was she alone?
The questions blared through his mind, louder than the hum of the freezer,
louder than the buzz of city noise beyond the restaurant walls.
Think. Move.
He ripped open a drawer beneath the counter,
grabbing fistfuls of clean kitchen towels—dropping half of them in his rush—
and sprinted back to the exit.
By the time he burst outside, the wife was already gone,
a silver sedan screeched out
leaving a trail of smoke and the bitter stench of regret
Tom dropped to his knees beside the man.
"Hey, hey, stay with me—" he gasped, pressing a towel hard against the gushing wound.
The Indian guy flinched under the pressure,
his face twisting in agony, one hand feebly grasping Tom’s sleeve.
His blood, hot and slick, spilled over Tom’s fingers, soaking through the towel almost instantly.
Tom barely registered the stickiness, the sharp blood filling his nose.
It’s suffocating.
He needed help. Now.
"I'm calling an ambulance," he muttered, more to himself than anyone.
One-handed, he fumbled for the man's phone,
yanking it from his back pocket and jamming it between his ear and shoulder,
refusing to loosen his grip on the wound.
The blood kept coming.
The phone rang once. Twice. Then—
"911, what's your emergency?" crackled a voice.
"Yes—yes, I have a stabbing victim," Tom blurted, voice cracking, hands slick and trembling.
"Behind the Thai restaurant by Central.
The back parking lot. Please—he's losing so much blood—please hurry—"
A tear slipped free, splashing onto the man's bloodied chest.
Tom didn’t even realize he was crying until the next one fell.
The Indian guy's mouth moved soundlessly, then finally rasped a whisper: "Thank you..."
"You're not gonna die," Tom said fiercely, shaking his head like he could will it into truth.
"Stay with me. You're gonna be okay. Just stay with me."
The man clutched his arm, his grip weak but urgent, and through ragged,
gasping breaths, he muttered:
“All my years in America... one thing I learned..." He coughed wetly.
"Kindness... takes you places..."
Tom squeezed his hand tighter.
"You need to hide now..." the man breathed out.
"The ambulance... it will be here soon. I'll take it from here..."
Tom looked up—and from a distance, flashing red and blue lights split the growing dusk.
He let go reluctantly, gave the man’s hand one final squeeze.
Then he ran.
Bolting back through the restaurant’s back door, heart slamming against his ribs—
Tom snapped into action, adrenaline spiking sharp and fast.
He slammed the back door shut, threw the bolt,
locked it tight—then checked it again with trembling hands.
He ran to the front entrance, locked that too, jerking the deadbolt into place.
Tom shoved the back door closed behind him, chest heaving.
And froze.
Tom’s blood turned to ice.
When he saw him.
Through the thin strip of glass, he caught a glimpse—
A man is standing, half-shadowed behind the coffee shop window.
He wasn’t moving.
Just standing there.
Watching.
Eyes locked on Tom through the dim space between their two buildings.
Even from a distance, Tom could feel it—
the weight of that gaze, cold and deliberate.
Not confusion.
Not concern.
Something else.
Something colder.
The fluorescent light above the alley buzzed and flickered, casting strange jerking shadows.
Tom took a deep breath.
Maybe he’s overthinking things.
Probably that’s just the shop’s customer waiting for a ride.
He dismissed his fears as he starts
picking up the broken plates and overturned chairs.
Next to the restaurant building, by the coffee shop,
the phone of the guy who’s staring at Tom lits up.
He’s the barista.
The same guy who gave Tom a coffee cup with his scribbled phone number.
He texted his brother.
"The waiter saw her. Not sure if he saw you too. Gonna take care of it. Don’t worry."
His mouth went dry.
Damn.
He kinda like the waiter.
Now, this leaves him with no choice.
Blood is certainly way much thicker than water.
Than the iced coffee he gave him.
He lit up his cigarette.
It’s not smoking that will kill him.
It’s his fucking heart.
As Tom pulled down all the blinds.
Switched off the "Open" sign.
Killed the lights.
Darkness swallowed the restaurant whole,
Tom slid down against the door, knees to his chest,
forcing his breath to slow even as his heart jack hammered against his ribs.
Outside, someone was bleeding out, fighting to breathe.
Inside, Tom clung to the thin, fragile silence—
Holding his own breath, and everything else, in trembling hands.
