Evergreen

The train is moving fast—much faster than it should be. I don't know where it's going, but I know this is the final destination; the last track; the path leading to the end. Of what, I don't know. But it sends a cold chill down my spine and dries my mouth. My heart thuds in my sternum, and my white-knuckled grip on the table's edges tighten.

There is little to parse in my environment, for it is all a blur, as if I am awake in my own dreams—or perhaps someone else's. The booth I sit in is red, and the window outside shows nothing but trees colored gray by an overcast sky. They move so fast it almost turns into nothing but a flickering pale mass.

There is no one else on this train—except for the conductor. My eyes tell me this, as they see no other passengers. My ears confirm with only the hum of the train's movement registering in my fogged mind. But my physical senses are dulled. They can only show me so much. No, somehow, someway, I know that the conductor is the only other person on this train. And I know this simply because I 'know'. It is as simple as how I know that my breath is quick and short, my skin is pale, and sweat is dripping down my back. It is as straightforward as knowing that I am afraid. As knowing that wherever this train is going, I don't want to be there.

But then 'he' approaches from behind. 'He' is not the conductor. I don't know if 'he' has been watching me this whole time, or if 'his' arrival is recent.

'He' moves slow, unbothered by the speed of the train, but 'his' movements are not smooth. They are stuttered, as if my vision is a series of images, my eyelids a camera shutter. 'His' image is blurred until 'he' sits across from me, silent and unnerving in 'his' presence. 'He' holds no instrument, no tool as I have always come to believe. 'He' is similar, but not the same.

'His' clothes are dark and ragged, and a white mask adorns 'his' face, shaped like a skull. But it is not defined. It is flat, regular, almost cartoonish in its appearance. As if someone had cut out a flat white sheet of plastic and carved it into its current form.

I want to cry, to scream, to beg—but I don't. I am paralyzed, stuck to my seat. My feet are cemented to the floor, and my hands cannot let go of the table.

But before I can so much as process what 'he' wants, 'he' stands, as quickly as 'he' sat. Again, 'his' movements are slow but abrupt. 'He' puts a bony hand on my shoulder and, just as 'he' appeared, 'he' disappears in a shimmer.

My hands release from the table's edges, and my feet unglue themselves from the floor. My heart slows, and my thoughts stop racing. A sense of something I cannot remember washes over me. It rings familiar but hollow within my chest, like seeing an old friend in a faded polaroid. I think I recognize it, but I can't quite place it, for it has been so long since this sensation has awakened within me.

I stand, walking to the center of the train car.

The train is slowing down. I don't feel it in my stomach, but I see it in the trees. Rather than a fuzzy mess, I can finally see them in detail.

Pine trees... they're pine trees—dusted in snow.

The train rolls to a stop, almost quickly, but again, I feel no lurch in my stomach nor the force of it pushing me in any direction.

But now I don't know what to do or where to go. There are no doors, no way to escape. I am stuck in this train car, standing in the middle of it like a fool.

That feeling still resonates in my body, rattling my bones and squishing my organs.

I don't blink, I don't sit back down, and I don't move.

But somehow I am back.

Back to the beginning.

I am in my seat, and the train is moving. But this time, the train is not speeding down the track. It's pace is steady and strong, but calm and quiet.

I do not question how I returned here. I simply search my mind and acknowledge the differences. I furrow my brows and realize the train is not on the same path. Again, I know this because I 'know'. A poor explanation, but the best one I can conjure.

This path is new. I don't know where it is leading, but it is not the same... and it no longer unnerves me. I am not gripping the table. My heart is not pounding. My mouth is not dry.

And then it hits me. Like a flash of lightning in a starless night sky. The feeling that has been settling in my stomach, curling up against me and releasing the tension in my muscles.

It is comfort.

The tears are rolling before I can stop them. Not because I remember this old feeling, and not because it has been so long since it has graced me with its presence.

But because I don't know if I should be grateful or terrified.

When 'his' hands touched my shoulder before 'he' disappeared, the feeling embraced me. 'He' bestowed it to me like a gift.

But given 'his' nature, I don't know if this comfort is an apology or a reassurance. My brain works harder than it should, looks harder than it needs to, reaches farther than necessary. This is simply how it has always been, and I fear this is no exception.

So I cry. I sob. I let the feeling surround me as I question whether this is still the end, or if 'he' is not ready for me yet.

I choose to believe the latter, if only to preserve what sanity remains. But as the days pass, and as the train fades from my memory, I fear that the feeling is leaving me again, returning to the void where it had been hidden for so long.

Still, the memory resonates deeply. That comfort is no longer inside of me, but the memory of it is. For now, I suppose that shall have to be enough.

I still do not know where the train's new path is leading, and I still no longer feel its destination is wicked.

However, to my great dismay, I am still unsure if I'm ready to reach this new destination.

Or if I ever will be.