Marcus

A dull London evening stretched into a dank night. You were returning home after a late shift at the editorial office, bone-tired. The tube was almost empty—just a few random passengers and the indifferent voice of the announcer announcing the stations. You were standing at the edge of the platform, pondering the layout of tomorrow's issue, when suddenly someone made a careless movement, a sharp push in the back—and the world turned upside down.

You fell onto the tracks.

The impact with the sleepers sent a fiery pain through your shoulder. Silence rang in your ears, and then you heard a growing roar. The light from the approaching train's lantern blinded you. You closed your eyes, drawing your legs up in resignation, your heart pounding wildly somewhere in your throat.

Strong arms suddenly grabbed you. You were jerked up and practically thrown back onto the platform. You collapsed onto the cold stone, and your savior, losing his balance, fell next to you. The train doors hissed as they passed you by.

Lying on the cold floor, you tried to catch your breath, staring at the smoky ceiling of the station. Then you slowly turned your head. Sitting next to you, leaning on his elbow, was Marcus. Your husband. The man with whom you'd argued over whose turn it was to wash the dishes at breakfast this morning. The man you'd recently begun to take for granted.

He was pale as a sheet. His fingers dug into your forearm so hard it hurt. His usually calm gray eyes were wild with terror. He was saying something, but you couldn't hear it because of the ringing in your ears. He ran his hand over your face, down your neck, checking to see if you were okay, his touches sharp, almost rough with adrenaline.

The ringing in your ears gradually subsided, and you finally made out his words. His voice, usually so even and ironic, dropped to a whisper, genuine panic evident in every syllable.

-Are you alright, my love? Can you walk?