Train of Thought

Rain smacked against the fog coated window. Its tat tat tat slowly prompted Parker’s eyelids to peel open — her head leaning against the cold hard glass. The sky outside was flickering with bouts of lightning, but the sun was still slightly visible.

Where Am I? This looks nothing like New York…

She looked around the train frantically to discover that she was the only person on board. She patted down her pockets — empty. She had with her no luggage, not even a purse.

Panic began to set in.

Was I mugged? How did I get on this train? Where is it going?

She looked herself over through her reflection on the window. She did not appear to have been harmed. Apart from her rapidly racing heart and her palms which now began to drip with anxiety, physically she felt normal. She had not been hurt. But how did she get on this train? Who put her here? And why, for the love of God, could she not remember a moment before any of this?

She jolted up from her seat and paced the aisle. It was similar to a typical Metro North Train; the type she usually took to go home to her parents house in Scarsdale when she wanted a break from life at NYU. It had the same blue cushioned seats and white panels along the walls. But the Metro North has never been so empty this time of day, and no way was she in Westchester County; the land outside this moving train was brown and desolate like a desert. She checked the door at the front of the car to see if she could get to the next car. The handle jiggled up and down as she pulled with all the strength she could muster, but it was sealed shut. She raced to the back door and faced the same problem. Her heart began to beat faster, and the faster her heart beat, the faster the train went.

She paced back and forth along the empty aisle, checking windows and seeing if she could budge them. No luck. She wanted to scream, but what would that solve? She certainly did not want to call attention to herself. While the thought of being alone on that train was alarming, having someone else appear in there could be even more frightening.

The train was now racing, faster than any Metro North train she had been on.

This has to be a dream. It makes no sense. It can’t be real.

But why did it feel as realistic as the everyday? She had no need to pinch herself to make sure she was awake — the tangibility of the seats, the handle and the way her feet planted themselves certainly on the floor of that car — this train was as real as any pinch she could give herself. She only wished it were a dream. Something from which she could wake up and be transported back to her normal little life.

She sat back down, compressed her eyes as tightly as she could and flung her head onto her lap and cried. Overcome with defeat. The train had won. She could not control it or flee from it, so she simply sat there, numb.

It has to stop at some point, doesn’t it?

At this point she was more concerned about getting off the train and worried less of where it was taking her. The feeling of being trapped on here indefinitely now seemed far worse than any place on solid ground where it might lead. So she began to fixate her mind more on when this train would come to a stop.

Her heart began to slow down. Her hands grew less anxious. She inhaled deeply then let out a sigh. And again, until her heart slowed itself down to its calm state.

She lifted her head from her lap and looked around.

The lightning was clearing and she could spy spots of rain in the rays of the now less withdrawn sun.

The train was slowing down.

Deep breath.

She was preparing herself for what awaited when it came to a stop.

The speed dwindled down and the train screeched as the brakes forced its quitting. She looked out the window once more to find not a desert but trees—a familiar sight when riding her usual commuter train. Was she going home?

“Parker.”

A strong male voice called out over the speaker.

“Parker, it’s time to get out now. Are you ready?”

She felt a warm, heavy hand wrap itself around her shoulder but found no one when she turned around.

“Parker. C’mon, now.”

Her eyes bolted open. She was now in what appeared to be an examination room. The walls were bare, bearing only grey paint. And the only thing giving light to the room were monitors flashing little red numbers and emitting a soft green glow. She looked down and realized she was hooked up to these monitors. Strands of chords were taped along her fingertips and metal headgear weighed heavily around her skull, sending out a loud beep each time she blinked.

“Thank you for volunteering your time to help us in this study. If you’re ready you can go now. Let’s get you out of these wires, shall we?”

As she slowly stood from the chair she removed the pamphlet which had been resting on her lap:

TRAIN OF THOUGHT

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