I slipped the fleece over my head, working my arms into the long sleeves.
It was just then—just as I got the fleece on—that the man came in.
He was a little older than I was—in his twenties maybe. A bit taller and a bit bigger around the waist and shoulders. He was wearing black jeans and a red windbreaker. He had a round, clean, pleasant face. Blond hair, blue eyes. He looked like a nice guy. He gave me a quick smile as he entered and I smiled back. Then he moved past me, heading toward the urinals at the far end of the room.
I took a step away from him, toward the door, ready to leave. As I went, I glanced over at the mirror to check myself one last time. I lifted my fist to my reflection by way of encouragement. Never give in.
And, as I did that, I caught a glimpse of the man behind me. I saw his reflection too, out of the corner of my eye. Strangely, he had stopped walking toward the urinals. He had pivoted around, back toward me.
Suddenly, without any warning at all, he had a knife in his hand. It was a killer’s knife, a combat knife. A seven-inch blade of black steel.
Even as I spotted him in the mirror, he tried to plunge the blade into my back.
A jolt of fear went through me, an electric terror that gave me almost supernatural speed. I leapt to my left, turning sideways. The blade lanced past my midsection, so close I felt its motion through the fleece. My years of karate training kicked in. I reacted without thinking, smacking his elbow with my left palm to push the knife hand away. At the same time, I struck out with my right hand, driving a quick punch into his face.
The blow hit home. The killer cried out. He reeled back, blood dripping down over his lips.
But he was well trained. He knew how to fight. Even as he grabbed his bleeding mouth in pain, he slashed out toward my face with the knife.
I threw my head back to get out of the way. The point of the blade went whispering past my chin. I stumbled backward. My back hit the door of the stall behind me. I went tumbling through and into the little cubicle.
The killer didn’t waste any time. He charged into the stall after me—or he tried to, anyway.
But I was fast too. I leapt forward, grabbed the door, and shoved it into him. It hit him. Knocked him backward. I ripped the door open at once. There he was. He had fallen against the sink—but only for a moment. He pushed off the porcelain edge and launched himself at me. This time, he drove the knife straight at my belly.
There was no doubt about it: it was meant to be a killing thrust. He wanted me dead.
Well, too bad for him. I didn’t feel like dying today. In fact, if I made a list of things I wanted to do, dying would probably be just about the last thing on it. I wanted to live and prove my innocence and go home to my parents and my friends and be an everyday guy again.
So now, as the killer came at me, I willed all my fear and all my survival instincts into one fiery ball of energy and focus. As his knife jabbed at me, I used that energy to turn sideways in the stall doorway, to get my body out of the blade’s path. I struck my raised right forearm into the killer’s arm, pushing his knife hand out of the way. Then, in the same movement, I lashed my fist back crosswise and hammered as hard as I could into the side of the killer’s head.
The edge of my fist drove into his temple full force. His eyes went white. The knife dropped from his limp fingers.
His knees buckled and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
Andrew Klavan, The Last Thing I Remember
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