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Quiet car

Where can he be?

By Martins AbuahPublished 2 years ago Updated 11 months ago 12 min read
2
Quiet car
Photo by Marcelo Quinan on Unsplash

Soft air flows into and out of his lungs. He stirs from sleep, stretching his hands in an upward motion, his legs struggling for space underneath the cramped seat.

He rubs his eyes, and mutters,

“I was dreaming about a girl when she said ...”

He is at loss, he cannot remember the words, and his eyes open, bringing him into limbo, where his mind is trapped in rest but wide awake.

He reads a sign high above a door, bright blue neon light, fading in and out, like it is whispering with the inscription “Quiet car”.

He shrugs, “still dreaming,” he says, switching to a more comfortable position, eyes closing once more to dive deeper into slumber’s vision.

There are those things the subconscious cannot discern in dreams, things like matter and space. And his eyes lift again. And his body observes the sturdiness of his surroundings.

Reality trickles in with a shiver.

He sits up in a jolt, peering behind and about his chair. His hands grip the seats, his chest starts to pound.

He notices the train's motion, sees that he is alone in the coach. He notices the tunnel as the train slithers through its hollow darkness. His brain cannot form a picture of the journey that brought him here, and he begins too hard to remember in vain.

Beside his seat lies a briefcase; he hoists it to his lap, his brows stiffening, his hands running through its body like the blind would read braille. It clicks as it opens, and he raises the lid slowly, wary of what may be under it, his breath now heaving loudly.

In the bareness of its inside, a cotton mask reclines, black, with holes for eyes, nose, and mouth.

Underneath the mask, he uncovers the L shape of a Glock, swallows it into his hands, examines its body, and pulls out its cartridge, but finds the absence of bullets which throws him under a spell.

He wants to piece into his mind its meaning, but his head starts to spin from fruitless probing.

In order not to overexert his mind, he drops the gun beside and his eyes immediately become drawn to a white note like those from a fortune cookie, lying naked within a translucent wrapper, reading, “Whatever you do, keep moving forward.”

He lifts his head shocked, heedful and searching for the voice that had spoken behind his ears.

He begins to imagine he is not alone, but he knows he cannot fear what is out of his visibility and places his back to the window to get a 180 view of the train’s car.

Beneath the note, is a handwritten list with six names and an ellipsis.

Tatum Barnum

Margaret Barnum

Joey Barnum

Marco Carravagio

Polo Ferguson

Alisa Dumfries…

He wonders what this means. “Why give me a list and an empty gun?” he says, patiently waiting to hear the voice again.

He holds the note towards the light, and turns it around. He finds a puzzling poem that throws him off.

Upon myself lies a confused smile,

Amusing is my be-stricken life.

“What does any of this mean?” He asks but does not let it disturb his mind.

He starts to pile all the belongings back into the briefcase, leering at the haiku for an extra second.

"Keep moving forward, what does that mean?"

He swaddles the briefcase under his armpit, and walks up to the door, pressing his hands against the sign that reads open.

As the door slides away, and his foot protrudes into the next car, he comes face to face with a man in black Oxford shoes and a fitted brown suit, hurling a boy in the air, and making airplane sounds.

The young boy is giggling ridiculously, and a quiet woman is sitting still in a stall, sipping tea from expensive china.

The man, catching his gaze, tenderly drops the boy, who decides to excite himself by running in short sprints from one end of the car to the other.

“Rasah come. Take a look at this,” the man says, imploring him.

His left foot is taken aback because he realizes that his name is unknown to himself, but he is known, and he obliges, showing sufficient deference to cover up — he hopes — the shock that plastered his face just seconds before.

The man drags him close, pointing outside a window. He bends his neck to view it, and he sees that the train is no longer in the sad tunnel, as there is a bright colorful grassland stretching forever, with a pale blue sky kissing it at the edge of infinity.

The sun is at its zenith here, and he can sense the love within all living things.

“Can you imagine a time when everything is as pure as nature?”

And there is no reply because Rasah is awed by the feeling of warmth.

He nods silently to the man’s query, still starstruck by the breeze now blowing into his face from an exposed window.

The man laughs and sits opposite the woman, then he picks out a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes a spill from her lips.

“Be watchful, M.B.” he says, and she responds by hiding her face, which is becoming red.

He thinks she has the type of beauty that is mature, loyal, and still locked into her husband.

There is a connection here, he notices, something he may never feel, and he takes a step back from the window only to bump into the running boy.

After an apology and a scolding of the boy by his father, Rasah realizes that he must 'keep moving forward' and courteously bids them goodbye.

Still, the man tells him to wait, implying that he should try some tea specially blended by his wife.

He does not want to argue, so he sits for the sake of supposed familiarity. Then the man starts a story, which he is expected to pay close attention to. He responds by arranging his face into an attentive expression that does not effectively conceal his impatience.

“It has become a flex not to care about others,” the man says.

“We now carry deception thick into our skins like a birthright that we must share."

"Do you remember joy, what true happiness felt like? I remember when I, M.B., and J.B. vacationed in the tropics. It was one of those moments where you realize that joy can be found anywhere. I felt it in family, in spending time in serenity.”

The man dons a wide smile and places a hand on Rasah's shoulder, another hand holding him by his collar, with his grip shocking Rasah’s almost attentive face.

“But why Rasah, why did you do this to us? We lived a happy life. We deserved better. Why did you come into the picture?”

He says this while being calm but aggressive, his hand now pressing into the thick of Rasah's skin.

“I don’t understand. Do what to you? What the hell is going on?” He counters while stuttering, slapping the man’s hands away, panting like a dog, and taking smaller steps back and further.

The man starts smiling and rests his back, lax like one who knows all, unperturbed by Rasah's restlessness.

“But let’s face it. I mean no disrespect, and I’m not trying to be funny, but let’s be honest. You are a vermin. You are vermin now, and you’ve always been vermin upon the face of the earth, and the only thing that is going to change is your ability to become a bigger vermin.”

And Rasah, now flustered, cannot hide his confusion further. The pressure in the room starts to suffocate him, his fingers snatching his briefcase which he notices is heavier, and his legs pulling him away, walking with his back, feeling for the door till he hears it slide.

For a short moment, after it closes, he bends down with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. But he is not given time to process his thoughts because of the voice he hears behind him.

“Ah, Rasah, speak of the devil. We were just talking about you. Come, have a drink with us. It is always great to see an old friend.”

He swivels around to find two men sitting with a bottle of bourbon separating them.

A fairly old man, and a young man who tips his hat towards him. He does not notice any aggression from their request, so he settles down to gather his thought, drinking with them directly from the bottle.

The older man, the more outspoken one, looks at his face and smiles.

“Rasah, do you remember the good old days?” He says. “Do you remember what it felt like to be excited about everything? We could have been called the three musketeers, me, you, and Polo. But look at us now. We are all on a train headed to nowhere.”

In his head, a light bulb flickers, and as he passes the bottle to the younger man, he turns and asks.

“The train, do you know where it’s headed?”

“Ah Rasah, you must be joking. You are the one who bought us the tickets. Where we’re headed is not important now, I will tell you later since you have forgotten, but do you remember the heists we pulled together? We were like Bonnie and Clyde before Polo even joined us.”

He pats him on the back, collecting the bottle from Polo.

Rasah stares blankly, still clutching the briefcase to his chest, resembling one who hangs onto a pillow for comfort.

“But you know what I can’t get my head around after all these years?”

“What?” Rasah replied.

“You Rasah, why? We trusted you. We would have held your back no matter the case, but you betrayed us. You disposed of us, stabbing us when we were not even watching.”

"Me? What! No! I would never do that to anybody. Honestly ... I don’t even know who you are. Why would I hurt you if I don't know you?”

“Ah, you see what I mean. A crook remains a crook. He even comes here to lie in our faces. Rasah, you are the worst.”

And as he says this, the young man starts to shout at Rasah, bridging the gap between them.

“Get out of here, double-crosser. We don’t want you in our sights. Stay the fuck away, you useless cheat. Crawl back into whatever hole you came out of.”

Then they both stand up, the old man and Polo, their hands dragging him through the car, his knees scrapping the floor.

They open the door and fling him into the next car, where he sits up with a shocked expression before his briefcase comes knocking down on his face, its weight double the size it was before.

He is now thrown into limbo. Everywhere is black. He starts to see, starts to understand.

He watches himself put on a mask and pick the locks of an old Victorian house.

He watches himself come face to face with a quiet woman, he remembers her shy, quiet face. He hears the running footsteps of black Oxford shoes. The bang of two distinct shots. He watches two bodies drop and starts to hear a boy's voice, “Mummy, Daddy?”

And his memory starts to form. He tries to hide his shame, “a child,” he screams, “a fucking child I killed.”

He is awakened by a change in the train tracks, welling with the urgency to get off the fucking train.

He stands up with his briefcase, not knowing why he cannot let the heavy thing go.

He considers the thought that it is the only thing that belongs to him, his baggage, all that he owns.

He is astonished to find a girl sitting at the far end, close to the door. Her head is bowed as if imitating the posture of a microscope.

She seems to draw lines with dividers, rulers, protractors, and triangles. And he has learned from previous experiences, so he starts to tiptoe to the door, hoping to get past her without making any noise. But she starts to cry. She starts to shout, “Alissa, why? Alissa, why?”

She looks up at him, and their gaze is caught momentarily, but he swiftly turns away after recognizing his first kill.

“I had everything,” She says.

“I got everything I ever dreamt of, but you came along and took it from me. Why Rasah, what did I ever do to you?”

He cannot answer the question. He is stunned like a statue. He does not know why he ever did any of it.

Survival, was that it? But his conscience disagrees. Many have survived without taking a life, but what made his choices different? He was poor, was that it? But his conscience disagrees. And his mind starts to race, he cannot even forgive himself, he knows. And inside, he starts to feel a piercing, like little knives stabbing him repeatedly.

He escapes into the next car, finding a crowd of people on every seat, who maintain their gaze on him for a second, before pouring after him like hungry zombies, screaming “Rasah, Rasah, why did you ever do this to us?” He makes sure to dodge the first few, running within them, bumping into some with his briefcase, kicking off the ones who drag at his legs. He notices the heaviness of his baggage each time, making him slower and slower, till he is finally strained, till his elongated hand stretches to the sign that reads open.

When he breathes the freedom of the next car, he is immediately drawn to relief by the sign he sees, high above a door, bright blue neon light, fading in and out, like it is whispering with the inscription “Quiet car”. Rampant on the walls is the most bizarre graffiti, “Murderer,” and its several synonyms, "Rasah, Killer, Terminator" are scattered across in different colors, ranging from blood red to pale brown. The walls start to shout at him. They are known to hear, but this time they scream. And he is brought to his knees, clasping his hands around his ears, hoping to drown out the noise. But his insides are shaking like they are about to spill, his body vibrating because his sins cannot sleep.

He feels a hand, a touch, quiet and soft, bringing him peace, shutting his demons away. He looks up to find a girl, her eyes dazzling like the sun, her face whiter than the brightest light, be still.

She raises his face, her breath hanging like fresh air of relief, and she calls him by his name.

“Dante Alejandro, Rest In Peace.”

His vision starts to blur, and he falls, eyes closing to his torture and sins.

Soft air begins to flow through his lungs. He becomes awakened from his slumber, stretching his hands upwards, his legs struggling for space underneath the cramped seat. His eyes start to itch, and he rubs them, muttering,

“I was dreaming about a girl when she said.”

Mystery
2

About the Creator

Martins Abuah

I want to serenade you.

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