Screech

The train was late as always; a group of flustered travellers hugging the yellow line as though their proximity to the chapped paint made a difference. I scan the crowd from behind. As always I am sat on one of the green benches, a corrugated Styrofoam cup held precariously in one delicate hand. The other rests on the growing mound of my stomach. I recognise some of the people here; a young woman pushing a pram - she's at the station every Wednesday, 9:00am sharp. I think her baby is called Charlie, but I might be wrong. I also recognise a short, pot-bellied middle-aged man named Stanley. I know his name because of the badge pinned to the lapel of his Marks and Spencer uniform. Stanley twists his head slightly along the tracks, searching for the train that will take him on the same monotonous journey every morning. I continue to scan the faces of the crowd, but I don't recognise any of the other people today, except for a pair of young girls no older than fourteen. They bunk school most Wednesdays, and catch the train to Kings Cross. It's scheduled for 9:05am - I know because that's the train I need to get, too. The sign hanging above them tells me that it is now 9:08am, and I catch snippets of there conversation: "Where the fucks this train, for fucks sake?" mutters Laurie. Laurie is a broad-shouldered brunette. In my memory I always charactature her with a stubby Mayfair hanging between her thin lips, but today her trademark cigarette is missing. Vaguely I notice that is still fiddling with a small orange lighter, the plastic glinting in the morning sunlight. Carrie, the girl she bunks with every Wednesday is slimmer and prettier than Laurie. I sometimes wonder why they are friends; when I was their age girls like her bullied me.
"I dunno, but I'm bored. Paul betta' have got those fags. It's cold, too." I am endlessly confused by the tangents Carrie speaks in. Her sentences never seem to fit coherently together, and she has a clipped accent that Laurie doesn't. Before I can place it though, Laurie carries on. They seem to speak to themselves more than each other.
"If it's not 'ere soon I'm goin' home. Mum's not back for like, three hours anyway," she went on, at the same time Carrie was whispering something about the latest cinema releases, Inception or something. I wasn't sure. I had never been to the cinema before. I turn my attention away from the two girls and squint up into the sky. It's a nice day. Only a few white clouds permeate the oceanic blue above, and the sunlight is unusually warm for this early in March. I'm wearing a long cotton skirt, blue, and I can feel the sweat beginning to build up behind my knees. My tights cling there uncomfortably, but I'm too embarrassed to adjust them with so many people around, even if they don't really see me. As if to prove my thoughts right, an elderly man with gray, lifeless skin trips on my foot.
"Sorry." My apology is mumbled, my cheeks flushing. The man glares and says nothing. I lower my gaze to the ground, eyes staring listlessly at the chewing-gum pockmarked asphalt. More people wander past, none of them looking at me. Not really. It's the same story every Wednesday. Has been for months, now. I set my alarm for 7:00 but always get up late, at 7:45. Because of that, I never have any breakfast and my hair is unbrushed. I don't even have time to cover my face with make-up. The thought makes me lower my head further, to hide my face. I leave the house at 8:00 and hurry down the road to the bus stop. I always miss the bus though; so I have to wait until the next one about ten minutes later. At least that gives me time to re-do the buttons on my blouse and wipe the thin layer of perspiration from my forehead, though. While I'm doing that a young schoolboy, about thirteen, always shows up. He looks at me like I'm some homeless vagrant. Whenever I look him in the eyes he turns his nose up. He gets the bus two minutes before mine. Today, not for the first time, I spent those two minutes sobbing into the sleeves my my blouse. The white material is see-through by the time I get on the bus, and the driver looks slightly disgusted when I stretch out a hand to swipe my Oyster card. I hurry away and take a seat at the front of the bus. The schoolkids cluster the back, playing music on their phones and talking loudly; I'm always too scared to go past the rear doors in case they notice my disheveled look - often they shout names at me anyway, but I pretend not to notice. It hurts when they call me a whore though; when they question what sort of man would 'knock me up'. They get off a few stops before me and I cry until my stop finally comes. I hurry off the bus without a second-glance. I can tell the driver is shaking his head at me as I scurry off down the street. People shove me repeatedly as I make my way to the station, they are all too busy hurrying along with phones stuck to their ears of MP3 players blaring loudly to take notice of a scruffy, pregnant middle-aged woman wearing an unwashed Sainsbury's uniform. It takes me ten minutes to get to the station, and I'm sweating by the time I reach the bench. Even before I fell pregnant after a one-night stand - I never saw the father again, but I heard him groan when he woke in the morning and saw me, while I pretended to sleep - I was overweight. Throwing up my meals never helped me loose weight though. I sit on that bench, like I am now every morning at 9:05 waiting for the train that is always late. The train will take me across town, where I walk another ten minutes to reach work. I can't afford to take ten minutes today though. If I'm late again I'll be sacked, and if that happens I won't be able to pay my rent - I'm already behind a month as it is. I sob silently, just thinking about this, but no-one cares. They are all to busy waiting for the train to pull into the station. The tracks are vibrating now, I notice distantly. People are shuffling even closer to that yellow line, toes just peeping over the edge as they all cram forwards, desperate to be the first one through the doors. I'm too busy worrying about my rent to get up though. I spend nine hours every day working on a checkout, earning just over five quid an hour, to try and pay my rent. Now I'm pregnant. I have no idea how I'm going to pay for a child; I have no money and no qualifications. I let out a low moan between sobs, and the old man glares at me from the back of the crowd again. No-one else so much as turns around - they can see the train approaching in the distance. It holds their attention completely, every eye locked onto the gradually approaching shadow of the driver with a mixture of frustration and relief.
"It's about time," one mutters loudly. Others agree, nodding jovially and grumbling similar remarks. The train is little more than three-hundred meters away now, but I am still sitting on the bench at the back of the crowd. Perhaps fifteen people block me from the train now. It's always busy too. Sometimes there's no room for me, and as I approach people seem to spread out to prevent the dirty looking woman from getting on. On those days I have to wait another fifteen minutes for the next train. Those days I cry alone - no-one else gets the 9:25 train from this stop. I rub my eyes with a balled fist, and sniffle gently. I stand up slowly, knees aching as they take my weight again. I trudge forwards, flats slapping the ground like wet fish as I amble my way to the edge of the crowd. A man glares at me as my hand-bag clips his wrist and I smile apologetically. He looks away, anger flashing in his dark eyes. I look down at the tracks, unable to meet anyone's gaze. I'm at the very edge of the crowd now, the first person the train will pass. I know that I will be the last one on though. I shoulder my bag, the leather strap digs uncomfortably into my shoulder anyway. I don't look up, but I can hear the screech of the trains wheels now - see the tracks vibrating on the ground. The shingles jump up and down as though euphoric at the arrival of the train, now five minutes late. It's always five minutes late. I glance up now, and clearly see the driver. He is a middle-aged man, no older than myself. He has a mop of dark hair and a thick black mustache. He's sweating, I notice. Aware that he's behind schedule, maybe. He starts to break the train as it comes into the station. I sigh, waiting for the train to slow and then stop. I too am sweating, the heat of the morning sun burning the back of my neck while I wait. The train pulls in a little further. I stand just behind the yellow line as the train reaches the edge of the platform.

I jump.

Metal screeches. People finally see me; they scream. I scream, too.

Screech.

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Rate, review and such. It's just something I did to pass the time, but all comments/criticisms/suggestions are more than welcome.

At first I was going to berate you about using line breaks, spacing between paragraphs, that sort of thing. And then as I started reading and started leaning closer to the screen I realized that each run-on sentence felt almost intentional, like you were drawing the reader into this crazy, hectic life of your protagonist and ramping the speed faster and faster until the only real way to stop the ride is to jump off, past the damned yellow line on the track. Once I realized that's what you were doing, I quickly backspaced and got rid of those -- "line break nao!" remarks.

So. As you can see, I'm already quite taken with this. I don't really know where to begin. It's such a raw, unforgiving portrait into the life of someone that the reader might not be, but someone that the reader might see every day, and not even realize it. Your details here and there, twisted to the narration of the reader -- "It hurts when they call me a whore though; when they question what sort of man would 'knock me up" and "Today, not for the first time, I spent those two minutes sobbing into the sleeves my my blouse .. " really brought things home. It's a tragic story you've painted in these muddled yet short, irate brushstrokes. Guh.

Yeah. It was your descriptive writing that really tied it all together. It felt stream-of-conscious; like the reader was seeing things through a narrowed toilet paper tube, and you were dragging the focus from one thing to another. From the chipped/chapped (I'd say chipped, but that's just me) yellow paint, to the corrugated Styrofoam cup, and then (my favorite part) to your descriptions of the other passengers! Dude, everyone has sat and just stalked people-watched before. I loved the little details, hearing snatches of conversation and recognizing people from what they have in their mouth, what their shoes are, that sort of thing. Apart from being a great example of that sort of writing, it really added another element of how invisible the speaker felt.

asdfasdf.

I really like this a lot. I end up saying that more than anything, but hopefully from the drabble I just dwelled on in the last three paragraphs you believe this is true.

Cheers!