Life ends with thunderous crash and the splinter of glass moving sideways...
And then life begins with the rush of the 'L' train passing by, and the screech against the train tracks jolts you back into the present reality.
Sort of. You're still disoriented...how did you get here? You feel like things should be different. The sound of glass echoes through your ears. Your body remains still, but your insides feel twisted, heaving forward, twirling inside out. Your heart tightens with unknown vacillation, a mysterious affliction. You search inside yourself, desperate for answers...and then, there is quietness. The feelings dissipate before you have further chance to make sense of them. It's like you've awakened from a dream - the image fades once the sun shines in.
The icy wind whips against your body, and the air is thick with frigidness. It's a cold night tonight...and that gray sweater jack you're wearing does nothing for you. In your own way, you sense that this feeling is akin the ones you forgot a moment before. Just as this jacket does nothing to protect you from the elements, there is nothing to protect you from this vulnerability. You are here, all alone, in a place that is familiar and unfamiliar. You know not why you are here or how you got here.
And even if you did, there is no guarantee you'd accept responsibility.
Your eyes drink in your surroundings. This...is the train station, obviously. The blue sign reads "Madison and Wabash"...just as silver train with orange signs whizzes by. How fitting that there is a foggy haze across the sky - it clouds the buildings in the distance, just as the fog of confusion clouds the clarity of your mind. Random cars and buses drive by, off to varied destinations. The others are spread out across two platforms, with some using the high platform to get from one side of the stations to the other. Some are chatting with friends, others are on the phone, and others still simply stare out into another in particular.
Somehow, you're sitting at a bench all by yourself. Everyone else here seems to know where they are going. They arrive, fill into trains, and then, they speed away.
You don't know where you're going. You don't even know how you got here, exactly.
It's dark...so, so dark. The streetlights may be bright enough to conceal the starry skies above, and the stations may be well-lit enough to keep people from going bump in the night (or even worse, trip over to the infamous third rail), but there is darkness within - no illumination. You don't know where you're going. You can't remember where you've been. The present seems meaningless.
You wish you could think properly. You wish you could make sense of it all.
You ask yourself over and over again, "What am I doing here?"
Each time you ask, you hope for the answer.
But you'll never get it, no matter how many times you ask.
You find yourself overwhelmed, distressed and frustrated. You just want to cry because nothing seems to make any sense. You want desperately to understand why it is you are here and why your heart feels like it's going to burst and why you feel like everything has been burned inside out. You want to understand why its feel like you've awakened from a dream only to come into what feels like Armageddon, the end of the universe.
Why? That's the question...Your lips form into the word, "Why...?"
The dam feels like it will burst...but that's when you notice how cold your face is. Your fingers brush against the tears frozen along the curves of your cheeks and your neck. You...you were crying before! But you can't remember what you were crying about. The fog refuses to lift.
Over and over, you keep asking yourself, "Why?"
A voice screams your name.
Your head snaps over to the figure at the top of the stairs. His face parts the seas of confusion - the fear that shoots up your spine threatens to knock you off your feet. His eyes are blood-shot and his face is crimson, as though flooded with an anger you do not understand. Even if he stands a few feet away, his countenance towers over you. Uneasiness clings to you. Your senses struggle to align themselves against the threat that stands before them.
Only now does the fog inside your head begin to lift...just a little bit.
He...he with the buzzcut and the tired dark eyes, the glower, the clenched fists, and the disquieting rage, is the reason why those teardrops are frozen against your face. You realize this as he advances toward you...as you arise for your seat, stumbling backward. You need to escape, you realize. You need to flee, to get away as quickly as you are able to.
Your heart aches, in both misplaced longing and engrossing misery.
You love him - you must - or else the pain wouldn't be so cutting.
"You're coming home with me right now," he says in no uncertain terms. The quietness of his voice chills you to the bone. It stirs memories of horror and of helpnessness, of twisted wristed and bruised cheeks, slaps, kicks, and the occasional punch. And then the memories of sincere apologies that anything but sincere. Now is not the time for apologies - now is the time for control. "I won't let you run away again."
You search frantically for an escape - but the platform leaves you little recourse. You search for a face, a look, an expression - something that would indicate that you aren't alone, that someone is willing to help you. Most people look away in apathy, and those who are watching are too interested in what will pop off next than in your well-being. The walls close in on you. You feel like you want to cry even more now, not in frustration, but in absolute fear.
You want to tell him to stop. You want to plead to his sense of reason. You don't want what's advancing toward you. You just want to be left alone, so you can figure it all out.
But when your mouth opens, your throat dries tightens, and all that escapes is a small squeak.
His shadow covers you in a blanket of darkness. He grabs a tight hold of your wrist. He squeezes it tightly, and you think you hear your bones cracking. Your voice rises from the depths of terror it was buried in. You cry out, strugging against his hold. You may not full understand the reality you've awakened to, but instinct dictates that you need to get as far away from him as you possibly can.
"Leave me alone," you cry out hoarsely. "Please, leave me alone."
"We're going to go home and deal with this!" His "appeal" is seeped in venomous intent. "I tried to be nice. I tried to! But you just ran away! All you do is run away! We belong together, don't you realize that! You can't run away! You belong to me!"
These are the words a woman in love aspires to hear - but coming out of his mouth, it grates against your sole like rusty nails, slicing away at her with insidious intent. His words are a death sentence - and you are not willing to die.
"You're hurting me, Gabriel!" His name slips from your tongue quite easily, but you are too frenzied to pick up on it. "I don't want any trouble. I just want to be alone..."
"You're not listening to me - why won't you listen to me?" He stuffs the rage back behind his eyes, but it's already too late. You know what he's capable of. Yet love still pulses with every heartbeat. You don't understand. You wish things were different. "I won't let you run away. You're coming home with me right now. I don't want to hear anything else. I'm going to make things right."
You plead over and over again for reason, but his eyes are void of lifelessness, and his grip gets even tighter. Tears spill from your face. You are powerless against him - completely vulnerable. He won't let you go - after all, you "belong" to him.
He's going to make things right. It makes you sick to your stomach thinking about it.
In a last ditch effort, you scream out to the top of your lungs, "STOP!"
You pray for escape. You pray for someone, anyone, to come and help you make sense of it all.
And that's when the whites of knuckles smash hard into his face.
You watch as he crashes hard onto the ground, a steam of crimson flying from his face.
You stumble backward, free from your grasp, only to get caught up in another one - at least it's not as tight.
"Come on, let's go!" an urgent voice barks at you. At the same time, you're being pulled toward the very stairs you resisted a moment ago. "The cops'll be here any moment. Let's move!"
You can only stare at him. You're confused all over again. Your eyes narrow at the new figure in front of you - wait, a thug? He's dressed like one, in that big black overcoat and black skull cap that hides wild long hair. Yet this man is famiiar to you. His presence frightens you, and he towers over you as well - it's beyond intimidating.
"What the hell?! Let's get out of here! I'm not getting arrested tonight!"
He scares you more than the man you love ever could...and it's not a fear your completely understand.
You look down at the man named Gabriel. He's getting up now, wiping the blood from his face. He looks even more enraged than before. All you see is darkness - fear is more pervasive than love.
You wish things were different. You wish that it was a simple misunderstanding that could be cleared up. You wish you could ask questions - you wish you weren't so confused. You want to reach out to him, and appeal to a rational state of mind. Even if you sensed his cruel intentions, despite it all, you wanted to him...you wanted your love to shower him with understanding...
You want to reach out to him. You want help him...because that's what you feel you'd normally do. You'd help him...
But even in its confused state, your mind will not allow for him.
The seed is already placed in your head...it's begun to sprout.
Go with the thug...you must flee with him.
You don't understand the hows or the whys...but you understand that you must follow this command.
So you look into the eyes of the thug. As you swallow back your fear, you nod, and allow him to "guide" you down the stairs and away from the prying eyes of both the crowd and the man you feel aching love for.
He cries out angrily, reminding you of your "place" by his side, spatting out that you will always belong to him.
But that doesn't matter, as this is the choice that you've made. The thug grumbles as you weave through the streets of Downtown Chicago, taking care to avoid police cars and other pedestrians.
You don't know where you're going, but somehow, it's okay.
This time, you made the right choice.