Hostile

The trees outside the train window flew past in a blink of an eye, their tall figures briefly silhouetted against the darkening sky before disappearing. The dark purple and magenta clouds looked down on the earth majestically before floating in the direction of the sunset, not wanting to be left behind in the cloud of darkness coming the other way.

I pulled my eyes away from the window to scan the loners still left in the cabin. There weren’t many of us: an elderly woman wearing a knitted shawl sat in the back corner, a frizzy-haired girl with freckles sat diagonal from me, and a large indian man was sitting behind me, snoring. I pulled my iPod out of my pocket and put the earphones in to drown him out.

I looked back out the dark window, seeing only my reflection now. I ran my fingers through my long straight black hair and thought about how much I liked this commute from work everyday, because it was never crowded. I didn’t have to sit next to any strangers, or even worse, communicate with them. I just hopped on the train and observed. One of the biggest things I realized was that people were always alone on this train. Hardly ever were there couples, and only once had I seen a group of three. Of course, during the middle of the day that would probably be different, but I wouldn’t know.

Sometimes I wrote poetry about the people, woven in with pieces of my day. I would write them on a scrap piece of paper and stick it on a wall in my bedroom, along with a rough pencil sketch of them. I called it my Museum of Personalities. My parents and older brothers always ridiculed me for it, but it didn’t matter much to me. I wasn’t close to them anyway, considering I barely ever saw them. My brother was always at parties, getting fucked up in more than one sense of the phrase, and my parents worked constantly.

We used to actually try to act like a happy family. But lately, I think we’ve all realized that that’s never going to happen. I laughed inwardly at the thought of it.

“Belle Valley” The robotic woman’s voice sounded over the intercom as we pulled into a small train station. The elderly woman stood up, and slowly hobbled out the door. I watched her walk over to the steps leading from the platform and walk down each one slowly as the train doors shut and we started to pick up speed again. I felt a twinge of sadness for her as her white hair disappeared into the distance. She seemed so sad. Was she going home to an empty house, with no one to greet her? She doesn’t deserve to be lonely.

I shook the thought out of my mind and leaned against the cold window pane. Why did I have to develop emotions over complete strangers?



The train pulled into the Cannonsdale station at exactly 8:32 PM, which was three minutes later than usual. The heavily graffitied doors opened and I stepped out onto the hard cement. I scanned the rest of the platform, and realized it was totally empty. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I walked under the flickering, artificial lights as I buried myself in my oversized sweatshirt. The wind had picked up while I was on the train, and it was colder than it usually was in September. However, I enjoyed the cool weather. It was a nice relief from the blistering heat of the summer.

I descended the stairs and into the tunnel below. I walked slowly through the cavern of dark blue tile, it was like passing through a uniform ceramic sea. I put my earbuds back in as the cold, dark wind greeted me at the end of the tunnel. The lights along the pathway through the small forest didn’t do much to illuminate my path, but I had walked it so many times in my life that I had memorized every step, crack, and bump. Finally, the path from the forest opened up into a large street packed with town-houses on either side, with other smaller roads branching out like arteries through the community.

Walking through our dark neighborhood at night was a little bit eerie. It was a relatively quiet neighborhood, despite how large it was. Mostly elderly people with a few young couples here and there.

I reached the street I lived on, and walked past four “For Sale” signs. Four. Weird. That’s two more than I remembered. I never understood why people would want to move from here, unless it’s for money or family problems. I generally liked this neighborhood. It’s quiet, like I said, there are plenty of trees (I never liked neighborhoods without trees. They seem so... barren), and it’s a five minute walk to the train station. You could just hop on the train and go downtown -- my favorite part about living here.

I shrugged to myself as I reached our above-average sized townhouse. I fumbled with my cold hands for the keys, unlocked the side door, and walked blindly into the darkness. Not wanting to turn on any lights, I felt my way upstairs and into my bedroom. I turned on the light (squinting at the sudden brightness), slowly shut the door behind me, and collapsed on my bed, which sat in the corner of my room on the floor.

An army of little drawn faces from around my room stared at me as I lay in my rumpled sheets, most of them unsmiling and looking bored. A few had their eyes closed, as if in an eternal sleep. The short poems beside them each telling a story about my impressions of them.

All of a sudden I heard the front door slam shut and the clicking of heels from downstairs. Mom must be home, I thought to myself. I closed my eyes briefly, letting the sounds of my mom from downstairs, the TV next door, and a dog barking down the street fill my ears. Those dull sounds were suddenly drowned out by a very clear scream from downstairs.

“Carmen!” My mother shrieked, obvious panic in her voice. Fear rose inside of me, and I could hear the steady pounding of my heart in my ears as I leapt up from my bed and rushed down the stairs. My mom was already in hysterics before I reached the kitchen.

All I could see was red. Dark red everywhere. It didn’t take long to figure out what it was. My eyes nervously followed the blood from the cabinets, to the table, and onto the floor where a human shaped lump lay. The vile smell of decaying flesh bombarded my nose, and a sickness crept into my stomach. I had a sudden urge to vomit, and my vision clouded.

The body was ripped open, intestines sprawled out on the tile floor along with the remains of several organs. The neck was severed, and the head was smashed to a bloody pulp. The figure’s bottom half was still intact, wearing suit pants and shiny, black shoes (now splattered with drying blood). I took a sharp breath as I realized who it was. I looked slowly at the crying mess of my mom, whose hair was now down from her usual bun and her makeup was running like black teardrops down her high cheekbones. She nodded before crying out again, her sobs resuming.

My legs got shaky and I had to lean against the wall in order to keep myself upright. Tears welled up in my eyes, and started pouring silently down my shaking body. That wasn’t just any body. That was my father.