MORNING

The morning air drifts in around me, cool and inviting, embracing my body in its early summer chill. The day is grey and unfriendly; I draw my jacket tighter so that I am snug within it. Summer is cooler here in San Fazuré, if you don’t keep an eye on the shifting months, you won’t notice the change from winter to summer, except perhaps, for the slight variation of moisture in the air.

I glance at my wrist watch, catching glimpse of my left arm, where the blood used to be; seeping from the cuts, slow and tedious like that of a snails trail.

I remember watching, oddly fascinated as my flesh bled; it didn’t sting, or hurt.  Instead there was a slight tingling sensation, sort of raw and exposed, like stepping out of a hot shower – naked - into the sharp cold of open air.  There isn’t any blood now though, just erratic patterns that the scars have created, creeping on the surface of my skin, the jagged lines old red in colour, and definite against my pale complexion.

The train is late again. Possibly delayed due to the railway work at Tiieldi station, otherwise, just late.  It’s not too unusual for the trains to be late here; the drivers on the Western districts dawdle. They linger just that little bit longer over coffee during their shifts, or changing driver carriages, they like the few extra minutes to laze.

The platform is beginning to fill up with it’s morning patrons, there’s twice the number of people arriving than there would be on a usual trip. It’s a delay.


- Excuse me. Sorry.

Comes an irritated tone through the thick sea of identical, sullen faces.
The voice is female, and the apology empty.
Our elbows come into contact.

Her touch sends a jerk electrifying through me, the spot at my elbow burns where it met hers; my stomach churns uncomfortably, and I am there once again. Like in the dreams, where I can feel his breath, hot and stale sighing onto my skin. My insides are twisting, entwining and knotting with one another, his hands creep into my body, prodding and intruding me. I can feel his heavy presence lingering over my helplessness, his skin rasping fiercely against mine, his eyes devouring me hungrily.  He is an animal.

My ticket allows me a full day trip; I think of waiting for the next train. I pat the pocket containing my ticket, and the ‘item’, to make sure. There are too many people here, all crowded into this one tiny grey fragment of the station, it is swamping almost. I take a few steps backward, away from the jostling crowd; hoping to once again - like I have been for so long since the whole thing – fade into the background and disappear into myself. I want to block everyone outside, to stop them from entering. I don't want to hear what anyone has to say. They’re all alike, pestering me about things I already know, assuring me things that I can see even more clearly than they.

They were never there.


THE WAITING ROOM

The bright fluorescent light of the station’s waiting room makes everybody seem pale and sick.

I feel sick.    

Perhaps it is because I haven’t been eating right.  Either that or I’ve been sitting here for too long. It seems an eternity, but most likely it has been twenty to thirty minutes?

I am guessing.  

The twin doors of the waiting room burst open, rebounding off the wall so violently it almost hits the entering group by surprise. The family of two adults and a teen wave their tickets briefly at the inspector before running to make their Train, all in anxious haste.

I scent a vague aroma of cheap cologne as they rush past me.

These colognes are ‘Remakes’ of the branded original, the expensive ones.

The type you can purchase at the drug store around the corner.


IT REMINDS ME OF HIM

The smell is still on me, faint, but there nonetheless.  

It's a damp odour; like dampness of wet blood, rich soil after rain and burned out cigarettes. No matter how many times I've cleansed myself, his scent refuses to wash off completely, mingling in with my perfume.

This odour, like everything that was before, will always stay with me.

It lurks beneath my skin, clinging onto my body and fusing in with my daily life; until his presence is silently screaming within me, as if it were to pierce through my veins, and tear away at my insides, swallowing whole my consciousness.

I can no longer see clearly, I am blinded by this mishap; I have lost my ability to feel, to observe and to believe.

The monotone of the public announcement system informs me the arrival of my next train in two minutes. I am fiddling with my ‘item’, fingering it, tracing it with my fingertips. It is smooth and cool to the touch. I lace around it to find my ticket lying behind it and take it out.  

It is time to go.



ESCAPE

I step aboard the train. It is an old one, with its rusted door handles and rick - rackety carriages.

I am glad that it is an old train. Those new ones are too flash and the interior unwelcoming with their stiff seats neatly arranged in sections. It all looks too sterile.

The train, to my delight, is relatively empty. Except for the few dozing passengers spread out here and there.

I take the seat reserved for the disabled.

This part is separated from the rest of the carriage, blocked off by a curved glass pane trimmed with steel lining. I feel protected by these glass panes, detached from the whole impossible world. I am safe.

I reach into my pocket, feeling for it. It is still there, just as I left it.

Slowly, cautiously, I draw the stiletto from within the protective shield of my pocket. I run my fingers over the brown leather casing, outlining the embossed pattern of twisted vines. It smells of an old album, left forgotten in the back of the attic with the rest of the ‘un-used but too good to throw away’ items.

At times, I lie in bed suffocating, drowning in my own thoughts. I can feel his hands on me, chocking me. I am screaming and calling, the world is silent, I feel as if I’m the only one. The sound of my screaming is deafening in my mind. Though, no one can hear me.

Then I wake, and see that it is all just a dream, and that it has not occurred again. But just when I thought that it had ended, and nothing – not him nor his insanity could hurt me anymore - like a recurring nightmare, everything just sets off all over again. I feel helpless and defenceless, and this nightmare continues, eating away at me. Leaving me just wanting to drown, drown in the depth of the dark, cold waters somewhere, anywhere. Just to plunge deep into the midst, the weight of the water pushing down on me.

I take off the leather casing. It slides off easily, revealing an almost new blade. I marvel at its silvery death.  I bring the blade close to my face, so that I can see my reflection in its gleaming splendour. And within the blade, I can see my past, like a series of short motion pictures, playing, replaying, the same smell, the same aroma, the same everything.

I am terrified of that past. My past.

The past is like a story in a sense, a story in which you can claim as your own. Everything I do or say today, right at this very present moment will become my past tomorrow, or at least a part of it. The past is a story in which you tell to someone, even if there is no one there. A story must be told in order for it to be a story, even kept in your mind, you are telling it to a someone, a you. And so this is my story. A story that has been written word by word into a book kept record in my mind.  A book in which the pages are now as clouded as the windows of this old train.

I choose to run, to escape if you will.

It is easier to run, to replace this pain with something numb. It is so much easier to go, than face all this pain here all alone. Something has been taken from deep inside of me, the secret I’ve kept locked away no one can ever see.

I can feel that raw, tingling sensation in my wrist again. The tip of the blade digging, deep into my existing wounds, retracing the patterns. My flesh exposed to air, to life, to everything. He is here again, pressing me down, forcing my head in between his thighs, I scream. He hits me. I can feel the sting of the blow, my cheek feels newly damaged even now.

My mind begins to retard, everything around me slurs and halts to a stop. I feel dizzy, my head throbbing as my focus becomes more and more vague.  I am no longer sitting in the disabled section of the train; I am elsewhere, in a parallel universe inside of myself. Everything is now so dark; peace cloaks me from limb to limb. I am now alone. I am free, Un-clouded.

I can see him now. He is raping me.