Stuff like this wasn’t supposed to happen to people like me. I was good. I kept my nose out of business that wasn’t mine. I didn’t do drugs, I didn’t hurt anybody, and I certainly didn’t make friends with psychopaths.

But there I was, little Frannie Marlowe, facing down some poor demented soul who couldn’t tell right from wrong. I was top of my class in highschool. I was going to be top of my class in college, too, if the serial killer didn’t make me into another missing person.

I didn’t want to be another missing person.

‘Five minutes,’ I told myself. ‘Just five minutes and the cops will be here.’

Five minutes didn’t seem so long when you were running out of time for a test or ten minutes away from work. Five minutes was hardly anything at all. The world would turn and twist and five minutes would pass, and, for most people, hardly anything would change at all.

Five minutes felt like a very long time when that was all that stood between you and rescue.

“Well?” The man in the ski mask gestured, annoyed. The knife in his hand was bloody, but I didn’t know who’d died. I’d spotted the body on the way back from my study session, and he’d spotted me. Figures. My brother always said studying would be the death of me.

“Well what?” I swallowed thickly. Four minutes and forty-five seconds.

“Well, what are your last words? Come on, I wanna hear what you gotta say.”

“My last words?” My eyebrow twitched. “Why would I want you to hear my last words?”

“Well, most are talking to me when they’re dying, so I figured you’d be the same.”

“They’re not talking to you, they’re begging for your life.”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”

“Vegetables?” I blinked. No lights. No sirens. Four minutes and twenty-three seconds. “Is that the key to not being murdered? Carrots. Peas. Celery. Tomatoes.”

“Tomatoes are fruit,” the psychopath said calmly.

“Forgive me for not being on my A-game here. I’ve never had my life threatened before.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” He shrugged. “Gotta jump in feet first, yeah? Now, gimme some better last words than that, Marlowe. I had you in my Speech class, I know you can do better than ‘celery.’”

I wracked my brain trying to figure out who the guy was, but I just didn’t recognize him. He didn’t even seem familiar. He just wasn’t very noteworthy in a normal day-to-day world, I guess. Things were different under the blanket of night.

“Why doesn’t ‘celery’ work?” I swallowed. Still no sign of the police. Three minutes and forty-two seconds. “Do you want me to beg for my life?”

“If you want to.” He shrugged again, like this wasn’t the worst day of my life. “Or you can do something else. If you really want your final moments in this realm to be spent on ‘celery,’ then that’s your prerogative. Just hurry up and decide, I’ve got finals tomorrow and do want to get some sleep.”

“I’m studying Dietics,” I said quietly. Three minutes and thirty seconds. “I want to be a dietician for kids. Celery is better for you than candy and shit.”

“Really? What a shocker! Tell me something I don’t know.”

“The police are on their way. They’re going to save me.”

“Oooh, I’m so scared. I’m sure that’s true. Last words. Lemme hear them.”

I was a young woman living on a college campus. I had a silent alarm that beeped the campus police. I also had one that wasn’t silent, but the knife turned me away from that.

“See, my last words aren’t going to be begging for my life,” I said, shifting from foot to foot. “I’ve not got much to live for. I don’t actually like celery.”

“Bummer,” the psychopath said dryly.

“But I do like thrill,” I said. “This? This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.” Three minutes thirteen seconds. “My heart is pounding. I didn’t know you could hear your heart beating in your ears like this. It’s…”

“Enthralling?” My would-be-killer’s eyes gleamed.

“Exactly.” I nodded eagerly. “I’ve never been high before, but I imagine this is what that’s like. I’m on cloud nine here. I’m scared but it’s good. I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared before… I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything remotely like this before.” Two minutes thirty-nine. “I don’t want to stop feeling like this, but I also want to go further. How fast can my heart beat? It already feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest.”

“Yeah,” the psycho cheered. He was smiling. “It’s… it’s nigh orgasmic, isn’t it? The adrenaline? I’ve never felt scared before… not really… but it always looks so nice on others’ faces. Picturesque. I want to capture that feeling but I can’t. The portrait shows my debauchery, you know?”

“I don’t,” I admitted. “You’re one of a kind. I feel fear. I want to feel more.” One minute forty-eight. “Can someone die from fright?”

“People can pass out from it. That happens sometimes. I hate it when that happens.”

“I wonder how it must’ve felt for them to get to that point, though. How their stomach must have twisted so much they felt like vomiting. Maybe they did vomit. I’m here thinking about how much life I’ve got left to live, but also I know that this is the most life I’ve lived. I want to live more. I want to feel more. Right now? This is the most I’ve ever felt. My emotions are so big I’m choking on them. They’re making me dizzy, making my mouth dry up, making my heart tumble before my knees. This is wonderful. This is nothing I’ve ever felt before.”

“You’re crazy.” They psychopath gawked. “Absolutely batshit crazy. Aren’t you gonna pray for forgiveness or something?”

“Why should I? I’ve not done anything to ask for forgiveness for. I’ve not done anything but what I was supposed to.” One minute eight seconds. “I still go by Frannie for God’s sake. Do I ask Him to forgive me for that time I borrowed my roommate’s hairbrush without asking? Or when I accidentally saw the answer on another student’s test before I saw the question? Do I apologize for not drinking or smoking or doing anything? I haven’t done anything. This is the most I’ve lived, and am I supposed to apologize for getting murdered?” Thirty-seven seconds. No sirens. No lights. My heart rate spiked even further.

“Then ask for the chance to live,” the psychopath said quietly, almost somberly. “You’re very human, Frannie Marlowe.”

“I’m a doll. I dress up and play pretend at life. Someday the dollhouse will get locked away, and I’ll be forgotten because I wasn’t interesting.”

“I think you’re plenty interesting.” The psychopath seemed strangely sincere. “I won’t forget you, Frannie. What’re your last words?”

Movement. Behind the killer someone moved into frame, the alley suddenly less of a prison. A silent alarm, a silent response. I was saved.

“I actually really like celery,” I said.