The Sleep's Dealer| ( j.j.k. + p.j.m.)

Terminal 16

click, click, click, click.

You can hear the train travelling over the trails, making a distinct noise.

click, click, click.

It's almost calming.

There are only few people in the train. But what can you say - it's already 11 in the evening. The night is dark outside, black to be exact. The moon is hidden behind the clouds that you, at this point, can't make out in the dark.

The blaring of the light is painful for people who are not used to it. But because of this, you could see the faces mirrored in the window panes.

Shame that noone is looking. At least the demons, the ghosts that the elderly tend to talk about on nights like these, could watch them now and ravel in the fading youth of the passengers.

Really. Shame, that noone is looking. Well, at least except of one.

And whilst the other passengers, some are travellers from a far away country, are busy sleeping, typing on their phones or even reading newspapers, they all have something in common. They're painfully normal.

They're coming and going does only interest a few people, noone really caring or thinking about what they might do, when they exit this train. Maybe going home, to family, to kids, to the sick ones or to the dead. Maybe there's a few late-night strippers under them, maybe some barkeepers. Maybe they drank too much at the bar and got kicked out (the guy in the corner, yeah, the one with the yellow teeth, he might have had too much to drink) or maybe they're just on the look for the next bridge.

There's this figure, a mop of disheveled, light brown looking hair, soft skin and big eyes, oh, those eyes are beautiful, facing the window.

There are headphones in his ear and if you would get close enough and if you'd lean down a little, just a little... yeah, like that... then you could hear the music playing in them.

But I bet, he wouldn't even care. He seems too much focused on what's going on outside, even if he couldn't properly see anything, because there was only the dark.

The big doe eyes reflect on the pane like a mirror and his lips are slightly parted, as he's staring outside.

The elderly woman on the seat opposite of his would have probably said, that he looked undeniably cute like that.

Omo. So young, he must still go to school. Ah, so cute and handsome.

His reflection does not lie. He is still very young, undeniably and breathtakingly beautiful in his own way (like everyone else too) and attractive but maybe the window pane lies.

You could not see the shadows behind his eyes, the constant tiredness in his form and you wouldn't dare to think of the reason just why he was staring for so long - apparently into nothing.

It's because this boy, the one with the pretty eyes, the innocence and curiosity in his features, the phone lying loosely in between his fingers, hasn't slept for exactly 5 months and 2 weeks.

You don't know this boy, and I bet, if he himself didn't want to tell you, you never would know him. You would never know about the pain behind those eyes, the thoughts in his mind, the coldness of his touches, every hint of warmth has been sucked out of him already, the tiredness behind his pale skin and the absolute non-existence of hope anymore.

There's still curiosity and innocence. Only things holding him up.

Cause you wouldn't know that he asks himself every single second, what's there still to offer in life.

The Terminal 16 at 11:23 p.m. heads further. Passengers getting on, some getting off. Some are leaving things behind, some take new things with them. Some look for a familiar home, some for a new beginning. Some are only returning. But they all get off eventually. Eventually, this train is emptied and even the boy with the light brown hair and big doe eyes gets off, burying his hands in his jacket.

Then, there's silence. Complete and utter silence, only disrupted by the click, click, click of the train on it's rails.

Every human soul is already at home, safe and sound, tucked under their blankets when the train heads to sunrise. Noone's holding onto the bars, trying to keep their balance, noone's head is being mirrored into the window, no eyes carefully look through the darkness, trying to find something. The aftertaste of beer and dirt lingers in the cabin of the train. It's late. Every human soul is warm at home.

But what if I told you that there's still someone here.