The Turnstile

Treasure the moments–before they are gone.

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It was a typical July afternoon in Singapore–the sort that smelt like Kopi O and a crowded train platform.

50-year-old Deanna Ling stood in place in front of the turnstile in the MRT station.

Her fingers still held warmth from her breakfast coffee, but the world around her was–

Frigid.

A moving wave of blank stares that was too cold.

She was a statue in a city that ran on milliseconds–everything moved faster than her breathing.

Her ticket wouldn’t scan–it had anchored her to the platform.

It had worked before. Before the call.

Perhaps she had tapped it a second–

Too slowly.

The turnstile gate beeped.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The line of people behind her lengthened-weaving, a line of blurred faces that refused to stop.

The light on the turnstile blinked. And the world blinked faster than the throbbing in her head.

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The scenes outside the train’s windows swapped from tree to building–the Flash was running circles around them.

The whirl was a series of too-quick pants blowing in Deanna’s ears.

The train was breathing too quickly–moving too fast for her to align with its steps.

She sat in her seat, unable to move a muscle. It had left her seat– and her–behind.

The crowd in the train gathered around her, a whirlpool moving in nanoseconds.

Someone dropped a bao. No passenger noted. It disappeared faster than it hit the ground.

The train stopped.

Inertia lingered–for just a second.

A quick sigh of air, then…

A human tsunami made its way through the door.

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Then–mental negatives.

Herself, in the hospital room.

The doctor’s words were a verbal blur–like the scenery outside her train.

Her mother, on a bed. Her pacemaker had stopped.

Never restarted.

They moved to the operating theatre–too fast for tears to form.

She walked out carrying her mother’s coat. Not her mother.

Her ribs gave in. She melted onto the floor.

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The next human wave rushed in, along with a decibel crash.

Over her.

Someone jostled her up.

“Are you alright?” A quick whisper.

She nodded. The train had to move.

She rose, in pieces.

But able to stand.

Her legs couldn’t work. The crowd did it for her.

And it kept going.

So did she–faster than her tears.

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