Last Train Home

[This story is a submission to the Runaway Train Challenge; I have reached out by email (timestamped) showing a tech error prevented me from posting the body of my work.]

Any event can be perceived one way in one moment, and entirely differently in the next. Odd, isn’t it?

Take the series of clicks and clacks of train wheels passing over track joints: I’d fallen asleep to that noise more times than I can count, the steady rhythm lulling me to sleep. Today, the same noise brings me back from sleep and into awareness.

I let my eyes remain shut for a few more seconds, just listening to the sound of wheels on rail. My eyes blink open, and I lift my gaze to the gap between the windows and rows of seats ahead of me, uninterrupted to the end of the cabin. Empty.

I stare out the window as the city lights flash by, and struggle to recall where I’m headed. I’m unable to recall much of anything. I recognize the train, only because I’ve taken it to the last stop hundreds of times in my life, and made the short walk home.

But I can’t recall what day it is, or where I’ve come from. I blink harder and wipe my eyes, hoping for clarity, with no success. I recognize a pair of billboards that glow above the sign for a worn down auto shop; I’m heading eastbound, towards home.

The cabin is entirely empty. I suppose that’s not unusual, but paired with my unawareness, it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I push into my own mind, but find nothing to recollect. I am, otherwise, clear headed; no headache, and no trouble with my thoughts. I can rule out any episode from one of my many vices.

The train rattles through a crossing, and I see a man waving frantically at the side of the tracks. I watch the passing city; the train is moving along far faster than I’ve ever seen. Paired with the sight of that panicked man, it’s enough to be alarming.

My pockets are void of any clues, and perhaps more disconcerting, any wallet, identification, keys, or phone, which I am never without.

The sum of oddities conjures up an image in my mind; the end of the B Line Eastbound. The tracks end with a bright yellow train stop. Beyond that, there’s a less than formidable row of privacy shrubs; they mark the property line of the train station and home. As a child, I would often oscillate between superhero and horror fantasies of a train running through the barricades and through my house. I never imagined I’d be on that train, as it now appears I am.

It would seem that the fantasy and my reality have become rather blurred.

There’s a deep urgency building within me. Sitting idly by no longer seems prudent.

I rise from my seat, half expecting some dreamlike loss of ability, but everything seems normal. Everything seems regrettably real.

I look back, and through the back door window, I see the city fading away from the last car of the train. I look forward, and peer through the opposite window; it appears to be what you’d expect, a poor angle into the next car.

I make my way down the aisle, heading towards the front of the train.

I reach the door, and give the handle a pull. It doesn’t budge. In all the times I’ve taken this train, I’ve always been able to move freely between cars. My face crinkles and I try again. Nothing.

I pull my hand back and take a deep breath, closing my eyes, and opening them once more.

I reach forward and give the handle a third, firm pull.

The door slides open with a violent clatter; I stare at it for a moment wondering what I had been doing wrong the first two times.I want to replay the moment until I can solve this, but it doesn’t seem to be the time to indulge in the less-than-urgnet.

The door into the next car opens as I’d expect, and I step forward. The door clacks closed behind me as I take in the strange sight in this cabin.

It’s nearly entirely empty; there are no seats. Well, there’s one, but not a train seat so much as a single chair. In it sits a man, intently watching an old black and white television.

“Hello?” I call out.

No response, not so much as a reaction.

I turn my eyes to the car door towards the front of the train, and now with great and swift strides, make my way through the car.

In just a few seconds, I’m at the far door, and give the handle a pull. Once again, it doesn’t budge. I collect myself, again with the ritual of a breath behind closed eyes, hoping it will remedy the lock as it had before.

I pull again, but the handle stands firm. In a panic, I pull on the handle in rapid succession half a dozen times, each time producing a clack of rejection.

I exhale sharply and rest my forehead against the barrier. I can feel the train rocking on the tracks, an unusual sway that whispers of its excessive speed.

I turn back, not really knowing what I expect to see. It’s the same car I’ve just passed through, but now the man sits ahead and to my right, as I’d expect from this side of the car.

“Hey man, what’s going on?” I am almost pleading.

It takes only one or two cautious steps back in the direction of the captivated viewer to make an alarming observation: I recognize, with absolute certainty, the man seated in the chair.

It is my father. The last time I saw him was nearly 14 years ago, when I stood beside his hospital bed the night before he passed away.

He looks better here. Younger. Less like the father I remember, he looks like the man from the pictures with my mother when they were together, happy. But here, he’s expressionless, staring at the screen.

“Dad?” My voice trembles a little. I hope that the ring of vulnerability is enough to get his attention, but I am once again disappointed.

“Dad!” I feel my face flush, anger building to subdue the fear of it all. “Why won’t you ever listen?!”

I can feel myself lose my grip on what is real and what is not. While I have spent the last few minutes with no idea on my situation, I now somehow have less.

And the only person that could help me won’t so much as look my way.

“Dad!” I charge forward, throwing both hands forward, aimed at his near shoulder. I have every intent of knocking him off his chair to send him sprawling to the floor.

Instead, my hands pass through this version of him, and having never dealt with appiritions, I wind up throwing myself to the floor.

Terror blends with confusion.

I turn and look back, and my dad blinks at the television, unmoved by my attempts.

Tears build up, breaking down my cheeks as I myself break down.

I let out a series of exasperated screams bathed in rage, yelling a lifetime of obscenities I’ve collected for my father.

“You were never there for me… You were always elsewhere, even when you were there. I feel like you never really looked at me... I don’t even know if you ever really loved me... You were never mean, and I hated you for that... At least rage and anger and hate would explain the coldness, the distance, the utter indifference I always felt from you... Why even have children to look past them?”

This continues for some time.

He drank himself to death, and I never uncovered any of those answers, instead all I got with grief, sadness, and emptiness.

For 14 years, time had scabbed over these feelings, a numbing agent like no other. Tonight, they bleed through the surface. I tuck my knees up and bury my face in them, alternating between sobs and screams, sitting beside a man who remains reactionless.

I begin to collect myself, drained and exhausted. My throat is hoarse, and my nose is stuffed with the byproducts of grief. My eyes turn up, and for the first time, I look to the images that my father is forever locked into.

The black and white video plays out; a home movie that must be older than the TV. It’s a family, on a beach, and after several minutes I recognize some of the characters. There’s my dad, aunt, and uncle, all children, from grade schooler to toddler. There’s a man, which I deduce to be my grandfather. Unseen behind the camera I imagine must be my grandmother.

Two of the children play in the surf. My father, the oldest, looking to be about 12, stands between them and their father. The sound is unclear, but the look on my father’s young face is pained. My grandfather, gripping a glass bottle from which he sips, seems to shout and point at the younger kids in the water. My father begins to cry, which sets off a quick set of events.

My grandfather rises from his chair, and with a swift motion, hurls the glass bottle at my father’s head. It connects, and a trickle of blood streams down the side of his face. Before he has time to register the pain, he’s taken by the arm and dragged to the edge of the water. He’s forcefully sat down, and once again the old man points at the younger children.

“Watch them!” he seems to yell, before stumbing and falling on his way back to his chair.

My father cries, bloodied.

The camera falls, and I imagine my grandmother tending to my father.

The image blinks new, and my father, now teenage, sits in a chair, expressionless. The boy next to him gives him a nudge, and he rises, walking across a stage, wearing a cap and gown. Depsite the smiles being given to him, he simpy goes through the motions of what must be a high school graduation. He returns to his seat, and slumps. His gaze turns up to a section of seating of parents. His mother looks on with a mix of pride and pity; beside her, her husband, small flask in one hand, and his panama hat resting over his face as he sleeps away a stupor.

The set of images blink away, and now my father, a young man dressed in a suit, stands with his head lowered. In front of him lay a polished wooden casket. Once again, he is expressionless.

I wonder if he feels anything that day. I wonder if he has felt anything since.

The image blinks black, before starting again at the beach.

I stare blankly, my mind swirling with what I’ve seen. My tears, once rage and fear, are now just sadness and empathy.

For the first time in my life, I stare up at my father with the context of what he has gone through, of who he had become. And with that, all of the ill will and the animosity that I once held fades away to nothing.

My heart beats in my chest, a little older, a little wiser, and a little lighter.

“No one ever told me. I never knew.” I pause for a quiet moment. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

The silence of the train car is broken by a familiar clank. I look right, and I see the forward latch fall, and the door slides open.

I stare through blurry eyes, and begin to understand the context of it all.

I’m jolted by another sudden lateral rock of the speeding train. I make my way to my feet, and to the open door. My stride is less urgent than it had been, slowed by the unknown of what lies ahead.

With one more glance at my father, I manage a smile.

“I love you, Dad.”

I step into the next train car.

My eyes are ready to study the scene, but I’m not given the time. A metal wastebasket is hurtling its way towards my head. I duck, and it crashes into the door behind me, shattering, the glass showering around me.

I take inventory of this car in an instant.

I see her, and recognize her at once. Julie Sonders, a girl who had bullied me for each of my four years of high school.

“No one will ever like you!” She yells at me. Hearing it again stings with the pain of poking a long established bruise, simultaneously with the searing pain of a novel cut.

She throws a book towards me, and I duck again. It hits the wall behind me and falls to the floor.

“Why would anyone be with you?!” She laughs wildly.

The last car left me less than emotionally stable; I turn myself to rage, and do something I had never dared to do all those year ago - I charge.

The memory of falling beyond my father evidenetly escapes me, and I lower my shoulder with everything I’ve got. Fully expecting impact, I once again vault myself through my visions. This time, with far more momentum than just a shove behind me, I go headfirst into the side of the train car.

Julie laughs wildly again, and produces a binder from nowhere and sends it in my direction. I dodge low left, but not far enough. I see the edge of the front flap rotate to make contact above my right eye. I squint and hope for the best.

Nothing.

The binder clatters to the ground behind me.

I turn to Julie, who’s seething as she does, and winding up with a coffee mug in her hand.

Frozen in confusion, I simply stare at her as she windmills her arm around and launches the cup at me; the aim is good. I can’t help but blink as it appears it’s going to hit me right between the eyes.

But it doesn’t. It passes through me as if I’m not there, and shatters behind me.

I laugh, and this enrages the petty tyrant. A chair is produced, and flung at me. It would have hit me across the chest, had it been tangible. It clatters behind me.

I simply stare out, and one random object from my childhood after another is thrown past or through me. With each failure, with each moment in which I don’t react, her energy seems to wane.

After a few minutes, the parade of projectiles comes to an end, and Julie begins an odd stride, seemingly to walk in place. After a few moments, a front door appears with us in the train car, which she opens, and we’re taken to the inside of a small house.

Immediately there’s a back and forth of screaming. The tension in the room is almost visible. Julie, the girl I had seen assert herself in any and every situation, tries to slink away into the basement. The creak of the first step gives her away, and suddenly the animosity of two parents in conflict turns to a united attack on the teen.

They demand to know why her grades are falling. They launch into a series of name calling and accusations, many contradicting each other, and most all meant to sting.

Julie doesn’t seem to respond at all, at least not verbally. Her body language tells of her state; in school she stands upright, and leans into the presense of everyone she encounters. Here, her shoulders are hunched forward, and she descends down the staris making herself as small as she can, as if to give the words less to hit.

The screaming begins to fade, and soon returns to two adults hurling insults at each other, now faintly in the background.

Julie burys herself into a corner, pillows and blankets stacked in a kind of fabric abode. She slides in headphones, and the sounds of her surroundings are downed out. She writes into a small journal, holding back tears.

I watch from the corner of the train car, watching this other place and other time. I am filled with sadness for this girl. In all the times I revisited my time under Julie’s rule, I knew there was no reason to treat someone like this. I held that in my heart as a truth.

Here I see that two things can be true; that there’s no good justification for the way she was, and that she had every inspiration and reason to act the way she did.

We were both victims, in some sense, of her parents and their conflicts. I can’t help but wonder what story exists in her parents' past, and their parents..

As I stare at the young girl from my past writing away in a journal, I feel, for the first time, forgiveness for her. I have no idea where she is today, but I know where I am; she taught me, begrudgingly, the value of boundaries, of standing up for oneself, and how to handle conflict.

I would not be who I am today if she had not been who she was then.

I accept that, just as it is.

As this wave passes over me, all images of her fade back to a train car, and I hear that familiar clack of a door latch releasing.

I turn around, and make my way through into the next car.

As the train screeches around a corner, I notice two things; first, that I am nearing the front of the train. I can see the illumination from its headlights on the brick apartment buildings passing by this curve. I also know that those buildings are not but a few miles from my house, and the end of the line.

The train is carrying far too much speed, and seems to be picking up more still.

As I enter the next train car, I come with a purpose, goal, and idea of what’s to come. I don’t stop to wonder what’s ahead. I, instead, rush forward with the confidence of being able to confront what I may find.

I step forward, and find myself staring at a train car cabin. There appears to be nothing abnormal about this, which, at this point, is about the last thing I had been expecting. I waste no time wondering, and sprint through the aisle to the far door. Through the window, I can see the blinking panel that controls the train.

With great relief, I reach forward to pull that door open and find a way to stop the runaway jaggernaut of steel and glass.

The relief is short lived, and the door is firmly locked.

I turn back and look through the car once more, trying to find the puzzle to solve. It’s then that I see them. Head resting on the window, blonde hair covering the better part of their face.

I haven’t seen them in years, at this point. But they look just as they did that last day. The feelings they left me with suddenly come flooding back. The utter despair. The sudden abandonment. The searing remarks as they walked out of my life.

Worse, I know that out there, in whatever present I am from, I know they are doing well. Married. Happy. Stable. All the things I thought we would be, they have with someone else. Not just someone else, but the very next someone else.

I feel the rage. Anger. Resentment.

But my memory forces me back to the prior cars and visions, and I understand the game.

Seeing my father, seeing my bully, I’ve seen that we are what we have been through. That the wrongs done were shadows of former wrongs, passed on from one person to the next.

I always loved them. I still do. Maybe I always will.

Maybe that’s why forgiveness seems to come easy here. With that love, with the understanding of only knowing the parts of their story, the parts they shared. My father never shared the parts of his father. Julie certainly never shared her pains of home.

What made them hurt me all those years ago?

My mind begins to wander, wonder, but the screech of metal wheels on metal tracks snaps me back to the dire urgency of the situation. There’s not much time left, and the train is still hurtling towards all that I know.

“I forgive you. I don’t know your story, and I know you loved me once. I forgive you for leaving, for the things that you said.” My tone is sincere.

I feel it inside and out. I feel myself liberated from that pain. I have tears in my eyes, but I’m not sad, something closer to being fulfilled. Closure.

I gently reach out and pull that final train door open, to gain access to the brakes to stop this train.

It doesn’t budge.

My expression quickly contorts, and I yell out into the nothing, begging to be let through.

“I said I forgive! I mean it! I know I mean it, I get it. I understand! What more do you need!? What do you want?!”

I frantically pull at the lever, but it remains locked. The retail center nearest my house whizzes by at what must be 120mph.

Just minutes remain.

I slump with my back against the door, my hand gripping hopelessly on to the handle, hoping to feel it click open. Hoping there’s some mistake, some delay, some moment that is about to come, but I can feel a heaviness inside of me.

I stare down between a few rows of seats, and I see the tears rolling down their face. I see the expression of someone who is gutted, but sure of their own way. I don’t see that anger. I don’t see any rage.

As I did for my father, and as I did for Julie, I begin to feel sadness for my ex before me. Sad that they left, sad that they too were hurt by the end of it. Sad that we had wasted all those years trying, only to feel the immense loss of this end.

I think back to that last night, to the things that were said. I force myself to recall those painful last words.

“Of course it’s not your fault,” will a roll of their eyes.

“You keep saying that,” to my sincere commitment to listen and change.

And finally, “I can’t waste my time on this anymore,” as they closed that door.

I figured they’d come back, first in a few minutes. Then, surely, the next day. Or I’d get a call or text by the weekend.

When none of that happened, that rage built inside of me. That I had been a waste of time. That I had never been what they said I was. That I was just a placeholder from the past to their wondeful, blissful, devastating present with that special other.

I look at them now, crying, sitting on the train the would have taken them away from me.

Why so sad when they were the one that pushed the dagger into both of our hearts?

“I can’t waste my time on this anymore.”

Rich, I think, this train still barelling down on all that I have, all that I know.

I think back to those six years. To the conversations. To the fights. Always about the same things. My frustrations that they could never understand who I was, and that my love was different. I told them no one would ever love them like I did, and I meant it. I never understood why this brought about tears.

I never believed the threats they’d leave. There had been so many, that’s just how they expressed a need to talk.

“I can’t waste my time on this anymore.”

I start to feel my own memories and perceptions collapse in on themselves.

I thought I tried…I always wanted to try…I did try… Didn’t I?...I wanted to, that was real…I hated the lies I told you… I hated the things I said…But we both know I didn’t mean them…Did I improve?...Did I change?...Of course I changed…But how?...The fights were always the same…the drinking, the lying, the texts…I wanted them to get better…Did they?...That last fight, it was over another set of rogue texts to someone who’s name I don’t remember.

Was it all a waste of time?...We had so much hope for the future…So much promise…I was so sure they were the one…That they were my forever…And they left…But here they cry…Was it me?

Was it me all along?

I break, and tears stream down my face. I imagine the feeling of loving to the end of the line, only to be disappointed by the same story over and over again. I’m left gutted, shame fills me. For the things that I did, for the things that I said, and more for all the things I never did and never said.

It was me all the time.

I look through the seats, and we both cry, united and separated by this mysterious train.

“I’m sorry”, I say to them. Their eyes turn up, locked with mine.

“I know.” The voice sends a shudder through me, the chards of remnant love.

“I’m sorry!” I yell, pulling on the handle to still find it locked.

“I know.” They smile at me, that near perfect smile, the one that could always comfort me. But there’s some pity there.

“I’m sorry.” I sob into my knees, and pull myself into a ball.

It had been me all along. The time I had taken from them. The efforts I never made.

Oh how sorry I was. How sorry I am.

But I didn’t know. Now I see, from my father on, carried their weight and passed it along. Just as they had done. Who knows how far back.

I had almost stopped it, I had almost seen, but I didn’t have the strength then. I didn’t see it then. I didn’t know the ways that I was broken, I didn’t know how to fix what I could not see.

They couldn’t give me more time, but it’s all I needed.

They’re happy now, that counts, right? Did I help them become who they are? My father helped me, good and bad. Julie made me, and I like me now, don’t I?

Is it the same for her?

The tears continue. I sob, inhaling a thick nasal paste, and wipe my eyes. Out the window I see that the train is passing throught the final crossing before the end of the line.

“I can’t waste my time on this anymore.”

I breathe through, and with it, I let go of the guilt I’ve held on to, hoping they are all they can be, despite it all. I had always known it was me, I suppose. I couldn’t confront it. I didn’t know my own why, and without my own why, my own actions seemed unforgivable.

It was easier to ignore than to confront.

But here today, I know that I could only do what I knew how to do. Now I know how to do it all again, but the time is gone.

And that’s okay.

For the first time, I feel like I am beginning to understand my why. For the first time, my own wrongs have context. It doesn’t make them better - nothing ever will - but somehow the why gives me space. That same space I have learn to extend to my father, my bully, can I extend it to myself?

And for the first time, I feel like I can forgive myself for my previous versions. I can’t take away the pains. I can’t change what I’ve done.

But I can move forward, leaving those versions of me behind. Knowing I am not who I was. Knowing that’s the best I can do now.

A familiar sound rings through the cabin, as the locked latch on the final door falls.

I jump up, wiping tears from my eyes, and nearly rip through the metal door to get to the controls. I look for a handle, anything that looks like it could stop a speeding train. I watch as we pass under the last control lights that mark the beginning of the last stop. Less than half a mile until we run out of track.

In the corner of the panel, a red button is bordered by black and yellow bands. In an instant, I jam the button down, which throws me forward with a great lurch.

The wheels scream protest, sliding along what’s left of the rails.

How long does it take to stop a train? Have I made it in time? What happens to my home if I haven’t? Will there be anything left? Will I survive? Is this curious trip something that can be survived? Could I have done it faster? Could I have started sooner? Just a short time sooner could have made all the difference.

All I can do is glide now, and hope that my finished efforts are enough to avoid tragedy. Nothing more I can do.

I step back and sit in the first row of seats and await my fate. No matter how this trip ends, I am who I am. I am better now than I was yesterday. Whatever this crazy journey is, I take comfort in knowing that I have progressed.

I see my house through the shrubs, and I smile.

I am home.