Death of a Nightingale

CHAPTER 7: ARE THE GARGOYLES WATCHING?

When I leave the office it's late. Or early. A matter of perspective. But I'm so used to working this shift, I like the night. Especially right now, in the fall. It's raining. Actually, it's pelting down. Which makes the streets reflect each glowing light in a neon color carpet. It looks like the end result of my dad and I'd paintball fest.

My bright yellow raincoat makes me look like a Chernobyl mushroom. But I'd rather stick out as a fashion disaster than get hit by some idiot, who can't see me at night. There are always plenty of them out on the streets. I roll on my bike and though I avoid the puddles, I enjoy the drive. It's peaceful. Blurry lights all around me. I can jump from the sidewalks to the streets in the middle of downtown and no one cares. The night is wonderful. It's my playground.

I hop off at the station and shoulder the bike. It's always heavy and I'm sure I'm doing damage to my body in the long run. The station is empty. Some mud remnants grace the floor. The platform smells mossy. Not in a good way. I hurl my bike onto the waiting train. I'm alone, so I have options. I sit. It feels good. Even though the seats are hard under the thin layer of grey padding. The train rattles into motion. Without a thought, I pop in my headphones and listen to my favorite podcast. It's a morbid one. Feel free to judge. I have this theory, that if you've been through some serious trauma, you prefer people and art that reflects that. So I listen to murder. It relaxes me.

The city blurs by. Hey Atlanta. You neo-noir blanket of fog that I barely see in the daylight. I look up as the train stops at the next station. Above ground this time. Another train on the rails across. Movement catches my eye. I've always wanted hair like that. One always wants the opposite, right? Blond, long, silky hair. And the bluest eyes I've ever seen. Piercing. Startling. A shiver runs through me. The train starts again and those eyes blink at me one last time. I shiver again. What is that intensity?Gone. More darkness engulfs my wagon in another tunnel. RATTLE. RATTLE. RATTLE. The thought of those eyes. Ice blue. Really ice blue. So unique. For the next few stations, I listen to a story about a California serial killer in the 60s. They're somehow always from California...Why? You don't have to kill people. Go to the beach. Enjoy the sunshine. But while the story moves along, station after station, my mind drifts back to those haunting eyes telling a tale of depth I've never seen before.

I get onto the platform. I have to switch trains. A few old, rusted columns make me turn and guide my bike funny. I have to stop and pull the kickstand back up. I always, ALWAYS hit my ankle on that thing at least once per day. When I continue walking something is different. I feel that chill again. I look around, but nothing. Just that chill. I close my eyes and try to shake it off. But the image of ice-blue eyes comes to mind and creeps that chill across my entire body. Like a nail up my spine. It's strange. Beautiful, scary, haunting.

The two local gargoyles hang and ponder about the meaning of life in the main hall. Like they always do. I stick my tongue out a little. I could swear one of them blinks at the insult. I call them Pinky & Brain. Like their namesakes, these guys are stationary and plotting. All the time. I wish I could decorate them for Christmas. They'd look a lot friendlier with a Santa hat. Outside, the night starts to give way to the creeping dawn. Fog, grey and thick. I just push the bike the last little bit. That feeling of strangeness doesn't leave me. My heart beats so loudly that I feel it in my throat. It's just such an odd thought. There's no one there. I know it. But I listen into the misty air. Raindrops that have puddled on a roof, finally splotch down. A lonely siren far away. A car on the wet street and a screeching dove. But what I don't hear are footsteps. Why do I feel like there's someone behind me? The clouds desperately want to open to a single ray of sunshine. That's when I risk one little glance over my shoulder. Is there another person? Is that strange, strange feeling rooted in more than my tired state of mind? Then I hear a curse. Muffled, but clearly spoken.So as the sun indeed illuminates this moody morning, I dare a look back. And there it is. Absolutely nothing but more fog. A few glittery dust particles dance in the wind and I wonder what harmful chemical plants polluted our air. I'm losing my remaining marbles. Clearly. There is no one following me. I continue up the steps to my house. Somehow that scary, lovely chill is gone.