Hungover

The rain was falling sideways, like marbles hitting the glass. A crack of thunder and flash of lighting pierced through the storm, jolting Oliver awake.

Owww, he thought, barely being able to get a thought out past the pounding headache. Sore throat, dry and thick mouth, aching muscles. Sadly familiar sensations. The taste of vomit and bourbon and beer lingered at the back of his throat. A film of dry sweat covered his body, disgustingly sticky. He could feel his hair matted over the back of his head. Not a pretty picture.

Gross. His brain was in a vice, tightening at random intervals while a hammer slammed at the inside of his skull. He could almost hear the blood pulsing in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, but that did next to nothing. Every raindrop that hit the glass triggered another strike of the hammer. The familiarity of the hangover didn’t help make it any better.

Oliver opened his eyes, trying to figure out whether or not he had miraculously made it home last night. He had been known to do it in the past, but it didn’t seem like today was one of those days. His memory had gone fuzzy at the first bar, some dive in Soho, right under Jason’s apartment. By the time they left the second bar, which could have been in Florida for all Oliver knew, he was basically just moving on instinct, not registering what was happening around him. His last memory was of him puking off a subway platform and running off with Jason and Theo, all screaming and laughing their asses off. He almost smiled at the thin memories of the night before, but the headache tore him out of them.

He was on a train, which was a good sign. Hopefully it was the right one, and he was headed home. It looked like the train he’d taken home countless nights before.

What about Jason and Theo? The thought squeezed through the pounding in his head. No one was sitting next to him, or in the row across the aisle. Only a few other people were in the car he was in, all sleeping. The night sky mixed with the rain, creating a shimmering pane on the window, impossible to see through.

Theo and Jason must have stayed in the city, he thought, not able to worry about his friends at the moment. He laid his head against the window and closed his eyes. Subduing this hangover was his first priority, and more sleep might help. Someone would wake him when the train reached the end of the line, and he could worry about all this then.

The world started to spin as soon as he closed his eyes and his stomach flipped inside of itself. His eyes snapped open, and he cursed under his breath at the train car spinning around him.

Classic, he thought, staring out the window to try to distract himself from his stomach’s protests. There was a fluctuation in his chest and stomach, and his throat started to tighten. Another sadly familiar feeling. Stumbling over the outer seat, he launched himself into the aisle, frantically scanning up and down. The bathroom was at the end, right before the doors. He started moving as fast as his drunken, hungover legs could go, using the chairs around him to balance himself as he stumbled down the aisle. He reached the bathroom door and flung it open, barely getting it closed behind him. He grabbed the bowl of the toilet, dropped to his knees and started vomiting.

The vomiting lasted almost two minutes. It felt like two hours. By the time it was done Oliver’s mouth had that horrid taste plastered into it and his throat and stomach were sore from the convulsing. He spat into the toilet bowl, now filled with the contents of his stomach, and flushed. His legs could barely lift him off the floor, so he grabbed the rim of the sink and pulled himself up. His eyes scanned the mirror, meeting the eyes of the corpse that stared back. He might have been shocked at his appearance if it didn’t show exactly how he felt. Dark rings were pressed into his eyes, and his tan skin was almost yellow. His eyes were bloodshot, empty, and his hair hung over his face in thin strings, held together by sweat and oil. His shirt, originally light blue, clung to his shoulders, spotted with dark patches of sweat, and other stains.

His headache had slightly receded after the vomiting, and he was finally able to gather himself. He looked like a dead man walking, and he wasn’t even sure if he was walking to the right place. Reaching down, he patted the pockets of his jeans, hoping he might have a text from his friends, or a train ticket in his wallet. His pockets were empty, sending a shot of anxiety through his heart. Panic gripped him, his heart and mind racing.

“Oh no, no, no. Fuck,” he whispered to himself, staring into the sunken eyes in the mirror. The eyes that stared back, eyes filled with blood and tears, shocked him back to reality. He splashed his face with water, mind racing to figure out a plan. He cupped his hands and gulped down some of the sink water, swishing some around and spitting it back out to try to get rid of the taste in his mouth.

I’ll just borrow a phone from someone, call Jason or Theo, or maybe Elle is awake at home and she can come help me out. She can track my phone and I can get it tomorrow. It’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. The thoughts raced through his head, working to calm him slightly, even though he knew he was likely lying to himself. He splashed his face with water one last time and tried to find a dry spot on his shirt to wipe it off.

A sharp knock at the door sent him sprawling, his heart leaping into his throat as he fell back.

“Ticket please,” A scratchy voice came from the other side of the door. Oliver pulled himself back to his feet, trying to compose himself.

“One sec,” he croaked, looking at himself once more in the mirror. His eyes had cleared up a little, but he was still dripping with water and the circles under his eyes were deep and dark as ever. Maybe the conductor would forgive his lack of a ticket, considering he looked like a zombie. Or he may call the cops on the guy with no ticket and no ID, who looked like he’d just crawled out of a horror movie. He opened the door slowly, looking up slowly to meet the conductor’s eyes. They stared into his soul, stony and detached.

“Ticket please, sir,” the conductor said again, staring at Oliver with a glazed over expression. The man was tall and gaunt, with pale skin and jet black hair peeking out from under his cap. His eyes were light, almost milky and the way they bore into Oliver sent shivers down his spine. His lips were a hard line under his hooked nose, and his skin seemed almost translucent at his neck. His fingers were long and bony, and the veins could be seen wrapped around the bones in his hand, which was stretched out towards Oliver to take his ticket. Oliver wanted to shrink back into the bathroom and slam the door shut on him. Maybe this guy was so unfazed at Oliver’s appearance because he looked so terrifying.

“Sorry, but I don’t have my ticket,” Oliver said quietly. “And I lost my wallet, so I can’t buy one, but if you let me borrow your phone,” Oliver’s voice was rising, the words stumbling out. “I can have someone come with the money at my stop.”

Hopefully, he thought, but he decided not to include that. The conductor’s eyes had widened upon hearing this, shock emanating from them and spreading over his face.

“Your stop?” the conductor muttered, his brow furrowing under his hat. He kept muttering to himself as he looked down at his hand.

“No ticket… How… No stops… What is… Talk to the boss… How,” the conductor took a step back, staring with wide eyes at Oliver. Strangely, the confusion had actually made the guy look more human.

“Listen man, I’m really sorry, but I promise I can pay,” Oliver took a step forward, turning his palms up with a slight shrug. The conductor slightly regained his composure and stepped back toward Oliver.

“Y…You can’t be on this train w-without a ticket,” he stammered. “You don’t belong here,” the conductor said, more firmly. He took another step forward, and Oliver stepped back into the bathroom.

What is with this guy? His heart and mind were racing again. A skeletal hand reached out, gripping Oliver’s shirt collar.

“Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing!” Oliver shoved at the conductor, but the man stood perfectly still. He started pulling at Oliver’s collar, stretching the shirt and causing Oliver to stumble forward.

“You can’t be here,” the conductor said, softly. “I’m trying to help you.” He started dragging at Oliver, an inhuman strength flowing through his bony arm. Oliver started punching at his arm, frantically swinging both fists downward. It felt like slamming his fists into steel beams.

What is happening! Oliver thrashed in the grip of the conductor, screaming and clawing at his arm. He was pulled off his feet, still being dragged toward the door of the train. The conductor kept saying the same thing, telling Oliver he couldn’t be on the train and that he was trying to help him. Oliver’s eyes darted around the train car, hoping one of the other passengers would come help him, but the few in the car were still asleep. He tried digging his heels into the ground, but the conductor dragged him along steadily

“Help! Somebody wake up! Help me please! What are you doing to me! LET ME GO!” Oliver kicked out as hard as he could, striking the conductor's calf. The conductor kept walking forward, completely unphased. A stab of pain shot up Oliver’s leg, as if he had just kicked a brick wall with all of his strength.

The conductor yanked Oliver up, pulling him to his feet as if he weighed less than nothing. He held Oliver in front of the door, lifting him off the ground so that they were at eye level. The door slid open, the roaring of the train flying across the ground filling the cabin. Oliver turned his head. The night stretched on as far as he could see, nothing but black and rain behind him. The ground beneath him was a blur, through the rain, the movement of the train and the tears filling Oliver’s eyes it almost looked like a blanket of black clouds. The wind was so strong that the rain seemed to fly up into Oliver’s eyes, stinging them with every drop. He jerked his head back, facing the conductor again.

“I’m sorry, but something has gone wrong. Please trust me, I am doing what is best for you. You do not belong here.” The conductor’s voice barely made it over the sound of the train, but he seemed almost sincere in his apology. As he was still holding Oliver six inches above the ground, threatening to throw him off of a moving train, the apology didn’t make him feel any better. Oliver had given up thrashing and was starting to sob.

“Why are you doing this?” he croaked. “You’re fucking crazy, I told you I would pay.” The conductor didn’t seem to hear Oliver. The pain in his leg, along with all the other pain he had built up on that terrible night abated. Everything seemed to slow down as the conductor’s arm pulled Oliver slightly closer to him and then pistoned outwards, releasing Oliver.

“Nooo!” Oliver screamed as he started to flail. He passed through the door and started falling towards the ground. The conductor stared sadly after him as he fell. He closed his eyes, bracing for the impact of the ground, but instead of hitting the ground, something soft caught him. He opened his eyes and saw a ceiling above him. His ceiling.

He was in his own bed, still in the disgusting clothes he had been wearing on the train. His sheets were covered in sweat and his shirt was covered in a disgusting sludge. The smell of the room, and himself, was almost unbearable. He sat up, looking around confused.

Did I just dream that? The train seemed far too vivid to be a dream, but the more he tried to think about it, the less the details would come to him. The door to his bedroom opened, and Elle came into the room. She was wearing her pajamas, her hair disheveled and her eyes and nose red. She saw him sitting up and yelped.

“Oh thank god,” she said as she rushed to him, pulling him into a hug, sobbing. Oliver could hardly lift his arms to hug her back. Her hands clung to the back of his shirt, pulling, as if she could barely believe he was actually sitting there.

What is happening?

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What is happening?

The conductor stared out the open door, wind rushing past and whipping him in the face with pellets of rain. The black clouds swirled beneath him, shooting the rain up into his face. In the distance a bolt of lighting arced into the sky, illuminating the landscape for a few moments. The conductor shielded his eyes from it, and stepped back into the train, sliding the door shut behind him. Absent-mindedly, he started moving to the next car.

How was he here? The conductor had never felt like this, in all the years he’d run the train nothing like this had ever happened. No one had ever made it onto the train without a ticket. The conductor’s heart was beating, beating hard, his skin prickling with sweat. How did he get on the train? Were there more like him that he had missed? Had he condemned innocent people?

Someone has to have heard about this, the conductor thought. He’d have to talk to the boss. Yeah, the boss would know what was happening. The conductor swallowed as he moved into the next car. The thought of having to bring this to the boss scared him, but not as much as the implications of the ticketless man did. He opened the door to the next car and moved into it. A man sat in the first seat, half asleep. His skin was pale and his eyes sunken. His chest had a small hole in it and the conductor could see the chair through it. The conductor reached down and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Ticket please.”