Voices in the Dark

                Along the way, I passed an old man swathed in thick coats, bent over against the rain. "It's cold," I commented benignly, and he nodded, and then kept walking. I paused to watch him go. Not long after, the rain began to clear up, and the moon peered out from behind the clouds, followed shortly by the stars. That's one thing you don't see much in the city: stars. They call it light pollution; it makes them invisible. Strange, the things you don't even realize you're missing.

                This was a small town; not many street lights, not much crime. The sidewalks were all torn up by the tree roots that grew beneath them, and in the spring the whole place was green against a blue sky. It was nice; it was natural. I hated it. Strange, that I would end it here.

                The train tracks loomed up ahead of me; they rested at the top of a hill, flashing their red lights and blowing their sad horns at the locals. I loved train tracks. Ever since I was a little kid I'd walk along the side of them, letting the trains blow past me. Sometimes, I'd even walk in the middle, when I was feeling particularly daring, and only jump off at the last minute. This was, of course, when I lived in the city.

                I slowed to a stop when I reached the top of the hill, waiting as a train slowly passed. I sat down in the wet grass to watch the cars go by, admiring the glimpses I caught of graffiti, remembering the trains I painted back in my troubled days, and wondered if any of my artwork still existed on some far away train, for people in some other small town to look at as they picked at little pieces of grass by the side of the train tracks. I hoped my name was still up on a train car somewhere; "EMORY WHITE," painted in big, loud bubble letters for the world to see.

                The last car slid past me, the dinging lights went out, the guard rails lifted. I pushed up from the ground; I was so tired it hurt. The tracks looked so nice. I took my sweatshirt off and walked over to the tracks and laid down, using the damp clothing as a pillow. It was actually pretty comfortable, once you got over how lumpy the ground was. I started to go to sleep. If only that horn would stop blowing...

                "Emory!" Someone was screaming my name. It didn't matter; they were far away.

                "Emory!" Closer now. I really wished they'd go away. I was trying to sleep.

                The horn blew again. The bells started to go off. All I wanted was to sleep.

                "Emory!" Quieter now; a pant. But I could hear footsteps pounding up the hill. I covered my ears with my hands.

                The tracks rumbled beneath my head; I tensed.

                "Emory, MOVE!" the voice yelled. They were annoying, and close now. I curled up into a ball.

                A pair of hands gripped my shoulders and pulled. I rolled off of the tracks; turned. "Nate," I muttered, wiggling beneath his grasp. A train thundered past; I watched as it shredded my sweatshirt pillow. His grip was so tight it was hurting my shoulders. "Ow," I said. "Nate, let go." He stared at me with wild eyes I couldn't quite meet.

                "Emory, why the fuck were you lying on the train tracks?"

                "Why did it look like I was lying on the train tracks?"

                "I damn looked like you wanted to die, Em." I was silent. "Why would you do that Em?"

                "Because, if I didn't, I was going to have to keep on living," I told him. He shook his head and ran his hand over his face, pulling at his chin.

                "What am I going to do with you now?" he asked no one in particular, looking up rather than down at my face.

                "You don't have to do anything. I'm not your responsibility," I told him, getting up off the ground. I brushed myself off and tried to walk past him. He grabbed my arm.

                "That's not true. You are my responsibility. You have been from the moment that I brought you to this crazy town." I stared blankly at a point between his eyes and said nothing. "Listen," he said, as if I had a choice, "I just want to know the truth. What's been going on with you Emory? Just give me a straight answer for once."

                "I wish I could, but I don't even know what the truth is myself anymore. It doesn't make sense; none of it makes sense. I just want to go home." He put his arm around me and steered me back towards the street.

                "We can go talk at home, sure," he said, tugging me along with him as he walked.

                "Not that home," I told him, "I mean the city. My real home." He gave me a pained smile and squeezed my shoulders.

                "We can go back there, just not tonight. Come on, Em, let's just get warm." I nodded and followed him through the damp night, wondering what on Earth I was going to tell him.