Sometimes you really are able to just take your emotions and thoughts and paint them beautifully onto paper- this was not one of those time. Instead I was trying to find some core part of me to relate to someone I once knew who struggled with similar emotions.
Who is to say what lugged my feet out here in the dead of night. Worn, tattered, black converse-somehow I thought wearing all black would somehow express the lack of color, lack of emotion I felt. Constantly. I lived in the suburbs, and so of course no one truly thought I could feel so damn empty. You have money, food, a family (barely), what more could you possibly want? Decency, for starters.
The tracks were abandoned long ago but they had always retained some kind of, liveliness. The rusted, orange, peeling spikes thrust into the ground, broken wood from being tread on one too many times. The delivery of our wealth to a nation. The night was cloudy, and the moon was not particularly bright. I knew it was wrong to go out alone at night, in this world, a small and feeble girl is an easy target for anything. Yet somehow the fear of being rushed, or at least the paranoia was more than I had felt in the last 24 hours.
Would anything have ever happened? Probably not. It was the suburbs.
This night however, I was not alone, as I normally was. When you walk blankly and keep your eyes forward and arms crossed to protect yourself from the night wind, your thoughts stray away too. Cutting yourself only worked for so long, or at least you couldn’t keep doing It without someone noticing. No one noticed under those long gloves, but I doubt anyone looked.
There is an old silo here, it stands tall, the other kids from school come here to smoke weed and lock tongues and practice their skate moves. At this hour however, even they were gone and it stood empty and formidably haunting.
If you step inside, I bet you’ll find a nice copper head. You’ll be dead in 30 minuets, easy.
I decided not this time, my sister would be broken and left alone to deal with screaming parents who struggle with their own living nightmares of the men they killed.
Before the side walk I was about to step on, and return to the buzzing, sleeping feeling of numbness. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck,
Maybe it won’t have to be your choice anyway…
The feeling turned into breathing, not my own. Whether from a desire to not have to take my own life and rush into fate instead, or maybe just curiosity, I followed it. Quietly. I did not call out like an idiot “who is there” but I found myself standing over him eventually.
His back pressed into the railroad tracks, empty eyes staring at an even emptier sky. I have seen him before, but I can’t recall a name. The shadows at night across someone’s face always twisted and turned to my imaginations worst fears of demons. He didn’t even look at me, I wondered how lost he must be in his own thoughts.
Sunrise was not for a few hours, and my parents would only be up an hour before that. I sat on the tracks beside him, but did not open my mouth. His arms sprawled out, I saw painfully familiar marks.
Could one of us have spoken up some regurgitated version of kind words. Of warm, understanding words. Could we have formed a lifelong friendship formed on those old tracks in the dead of night. With open wounds that literally stung with the cold wind.
But then we wouldn’t have remained miserable.