A New Beginning

You stand on the platform, your auburn locks blowing behind you in the breeze. Your face is serene, as if you do not have a care in the world. You always carry yourself with an effortless grace. You carry your emerald purse today, the one with the brass locks. I smile to myself when I see you. I watch through the window as you step onto the train and float down the aisle, your dainty Oxfords silent against the bustle of your fellow passengers. I sit on the chair across the aisle from you, watching as you slip your little notebook from your coat pocket. A man in a checkered business suit slides into the seat across from you, a grin spreading across his smarmy face as he catches a glimpse of your lovely frame. He reaches up to his ear to turn off his Bluetooth before attempting to engage you in conversation. You peer up through your lashes, artfully curled, murmuring your thanks at his flattery before you disappear into your reading. You are pensive as you read, chewing the end of your pen with those pearly whites as you ponder the page. Suddenly you glance up at me and hurriedly I turn away, pretending to read my novel. I am captivated by you, but I wish that it was not so obvious. When it is safe to look back at you, I see that the businessman has spread his legs over the edges of his seat, forcing you to turn to one side to avoid touching him. He has begun an overly loud telephone conversation, complete with emphatic hand gestures. I immediately despise him. I spend the remainder of the train ride alternately scowling at his rudeness and catching glimpses of you watching the world go by outside the window.

Your walk is purposeful as you step off the platform. We have taken this path so many times before that I could walk through blindfolded. However, unlike our other jaunts, my pulse is racing today. It is the first day of our new life together. The thought of my name on your lips, the touch of your skin; it sends shivers up my spine. We round the bend behind the station, crunching through the autumn leaves. As we continue down the slope into the forest, the trees begin growing needles, obscuring us from the hustle and bustle of the city. You turn around. Our eyes lock for the first time. You frown, a crinkle running the length of your forehead.

“Are you following me? What the hell do you want?!”

Speechless, I stare at you. Don’t you recognize me?

“You know that it’s creepy to follow people, right? I saw you watching me on the train. Are you some kind of pervert?” You are starting to get angry. The feeling is mutual. I wonder if the steel in your eyes is reflected in my own. It was never my intention to hurt you. At least, that is what I tell myself now. But now, towering over you, stripped of my past by a woman who lacks the decency to recognize her victims, I cannot control my urges.

“What the hell is wrong with you?! Say something!”

The heat is rising in my cheeks, burning a fury through my body the likes of which I have never felt before. The flames rush through my hands, and in a heartbeat my stubby fingers have grabbed your delicate throat. Your eyes widen, primal fear washing away your anger.

“You. Stole. Everything. From. Me.” The words come out in a hiss. Your hands have begun to scrabble at my arms, desperately clawing to escape, but to no avail. My hands keep their hold until your eyes close, your unconscious body falling in a dead weight against mine. I lay you down among the leaves, sweeping your hair over your neck to hide our struggle. Should I feel guilt for concealing my attack? Perhaps, but the feeling of peace that now fills me feels deeply deserved. I survey the ground and notice that your purse, dropped when I grabbed you, has strewn its contents about our feet. Several velvet pouches have fallen out of your bag, and I reach down to pick them up. The drawstring on one bag opens, sending a shower of money to the ground. The bills are a variety of currencies but mainly pounds and euros. I sink to my knees in the leaves, hurriedly pulling open the pouches and dumping the stacks of notes into my palms. I reach backwards, pulling your purse into my lap by one handle and dropping the pouches back inside the main compartment. I begin opening all the zippers and pockets of your bag, which reveals itself to be a wonderland of treasures. Not only is there upwards of twenty thousand dollars in cash, but one pocket reveals dozens of drivers licenses and credit cards. All the licenses have your picture, but the names are all different. A quick shuffle of cards shows me a Grace Simons, Lisa O’Neil, Stella Baker, Laura Beekman, and Shayla Waters. I carefully slip them back into the pocket and unzip the one I know holds your little black notebook. This is where you keep your secrets. I can hardly contain my excitement as I slip the elastic out from between the last pages you were looking at. I flip backwards, scanning through lists of names, feverishly searching for the one I know to be there. Then I spot it, Sharon Bishop. There is a number scrawled across the page from the name, and a line slashes through both. I stare at the name, so familiar and yet now so foreign. It must have sounded so strange on your lips; you certainly do not look like a Sharon. I wonder again why you chose me. Was the ruse worth it? Did stealing Sharon Bishop make you feel stronger? She certainly did not have much to offer the world when I wore her face. Bitterness fills my heart. You would have made her more worthy than I ever could, ever will. I absentmindedly shuffle through the last stack of bills, fingering through the rest of your possessions. One finger catches on the bottom of your purse, and when I lift my finger it comes away. There is one piece of paper hidden under there, a plane ticket to Miami, Florida. I pull it onto my knee, checking the name on the left-hand side, Laura Beekman, and the “one way” circled on the right. I thumb the stack of bills again, glancing back at you, still peacefully unconscious. A plan is whirring into motion in my mind, revenge in its sweetest form. I stand up, brushing the leaves off my jacket, and bend down to fish a pair of floral sunglasses out of your coat pocket, perching them on my head. I sling your purse over my shoulder, ignoring the garnish clash of the green with my yellow gum boots. I will stop at a boutique on the way to the airport to buy some new shoes. Laura Beekman never clashes. I rip the page with Sharon Bishop out of the notebook, slip a pen out of your.., my purse and circle the name. I slide it into your coat pocket. I take one last look at you.

“Thank you.” I say sincerely. “I think that I do need a fresh start.” I turn away from you and start walking back through the trees, slipping the sunglasses over my eyes. Next stop, Miami.