Grey Train

Grey TrainSpots obscured her vision as she tried to make out the shape of what was left of the Washington Monument. The train was old — probably several decades old, at least — and very rickety. Creaking and rocking, back and forth, creaking and rocking, back and forth. The predictability of the motions left her with a feeling of almost maddening calmness, creaking and rocking, back and forth, again and again, over and over.

All of this was most likely lost to Rutherford, she thought. She sensed his disdain for the way she had become — noticed how he would never look her in the eyes, anymore. He was absentmindedly chewing his once perfectly manicured fingernails, a habit he had, at one time, frowned upon when she had been the one indulging in such vile activity. She resumed her survey of the surrounding landscape, cheek pressed against the smooth, cold glass. Ah, but it was all so empty. Grey. Chilling and unsatisfying to behold. Perhaps…yes. She remembered the hole in her hand.

“Too bad,” Rutherford said, as if on cue. “Too bad about that hole in your hand.”

Yes, she answered with her thoughts, staring into the field of grey spots which hovered before her eyes. Indeed, too bad that she no longer knew who she was or what she was perceiving. It had all escaped with that simple power of observation oozing out her hole-marred hand.

About Robert Glen Fogarty

Sometimes I’ll take the wrong bus just to get out of the cold for a little while.

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