Day And Dawn
If there was one thing about that day that was different, that was strange and off-putting, it was that everything about it felt numb. All colours appeared Greyed out and everything else felt numb to the touch. It was cold, wet, windy -- miserable. It was going to get worse.
It started with the end, and it would end with the start.
That's how those things went. You got on, You got off. Everyone got on. And everyone get off. Some faster than others, some slower. Some feared it, and others loved the thought of it.
Life is a locomotive, and on that day, that horrible and numb day, someone would step off. He didn't choose to step off, and it wasn't his time, but sometimes things happen, and sometimes not for a reason.
His name was John. He worked every day, and he stuck to his routine. He only stayed awake in his house to eat and sleep. The television was never on and most of the furniture was given a silky layer of dust. Everything in his home was kept tidy, save what had dust on it. He didn't know why, but he would never clean the dust off. It was a strange reminder that though he went there, he didn't really live there.
John, didn't enjoy life. But he didn't hate it. He never thought about life, at all, really. His days were spent working, constantly. His mantra? Work. Work. Work. But even that, was beginning to become hard to bare. Why, he couldn't guess. He assumed he loved worked, because it was all he did. All he thought about. And all he ever needed. His life was work, and work was his life. He felt he was alone in that mindset. He had no family, no lover, no children. The only people he talked to were the people he had: The woman that was always working at the coffee shop with the lazy eye. The towering black giant that was the security guard at the revolving doors out side of his true home. And his boss. His boss, his God and his Satan. She gave him work, and she gave him meaning. But she always threatened to remove that purpose from him whenever he screwed up something, though such events were rare, they did happen. He was only human after all, though he felt more machine than man.
There he was, on that day. Sitting on his neat, little bed, in his black suit. He sat staring at the opaque wall before him, and noticed a minuscule crack that most people would never see, but he saw it. He was meticulous and when he looked at that wall, he couldn't stop himself looking for flaws. That was what he did. Look for flaws. Flaws in people and objects, flaws in everything. Flaws in flaws. And flaws without flaws. That's why people hired John. He was good at what he did. He was always good at what he did. Mainly it was people who wanted to know if a painting they had was a fake, and sometimes a D.A. would come and ask John to watch people being questioned about crimes. John could see flaws in peoples faces. Little things, small things that said LIE, things that machines never pick up on. That was why they hired him. He was good. But that day, he wouldn't be good. He would be the opposite of good.
It took him twenty minutes to get on the train. The train that would drag him to his home away from 'home' and let him live his strange life. It was almost empty at this time, it always ways, people didn't get on a train at 7:30. Most found other ways to get around at that time. Though, some did. John was one, as was the young man sitting the far right with his eyes fixed on the speeding, blurred, scenery. The young man seemed completely content with everything in the world, leaving John as a pale and grim comparison. The young man's eyes slid off the window and along the walls until they met with John's cold stare. The man smiled and winked. What the hell was he winking for? John could only look away, but for some reason. Found himself looking back again. The young man was now sitting in the seats parallel to his with an odd little smile to his face. He sat in the light of the sun, and his smile seemed to warm it, turning it from a harsh winter morning light to a beautiful summer's shine. John was perplexed, but still sat in the shadows, turning his side visually colder - still he sat as a pale to the young man.
"Hi." Said the happy man to the cold man before him who replied with a simple nod and awkward, faked, smile. "You're John, right?"
Now he had John's attention. Now he had it firmly in his hands.
"Who are you?" He blurted out but the young man paused for a few moments, looked to the sun and then turned his head back before speaking gently,
"Sean."
"How did you know my name?"
"Lucky guess."
He was lying. He knew something that he wasn't telling. He knew something! John needed to know the truth. He felt compelled to continue,
"Tell the truth. How do you know my na--" His words were cut short by a loud banging, that shook the train and almost derailed it. The bright lights above flickered as the they sped into a tunnel that isolated the metallic serpent in darkness. John hadn't noticed it, but when he looked across where the young man sat, he was gone. A rose sat in his place, it's petals somehow seemed brighter than anything else as if somehow saturated above everything else.
The train left the tunnel, and after a few seconds, stopped. John stood and left through the opening, blue doors but keeping his eye on the rose. He wanted to pick it up, carry it everywhere, but he knew better. He left it there and went on his way.
As he left the station he kept wondering about the train, it still hadn't left and there were a lot of people showing up now. Strange. But not unheard of.
It took another five minutes before John would reach the main building, that towering glass idol that looked down on everything else and showed the world a reflection of it's disgusting self. It was a law firm, and a damn well respected one at that. It was notorious for not taking bribes from the gangbangers, the mob bosses and the corrupt. It kept itself a standing light in a world of darkness. It sat with a beautiful fountain before it, surrounded by flowers and black marble flooring leading off inside through the golden painted steel and glass revolving doors to which John walked purposefully towards, knowing he was late. Late. Late! Of course, today, that wouldn't matter. No, it wouldn't. Not one bit.
He pushed the glass, and strangely, it didn't feel cold. That glass always felt freezing to the touch, as if it was made of ice. But today, it didn't seem to hold any temperature at all, like solid air. This was odd. The doors always breezed away from the touch like they were as paper, but today they stood cemented in place. John pushed harder, trying with all his might and cursing under his breath before finally giving up and turning to the city. He turned back again, and checked to see if the receptionist was there, and she was. Not noticing him already, she was reading some sort of glossy magazine about celebrities or something idiotic and pointless such as that. John banged on the window,
"Hey!" he shouted. Waited. She didn't move. She didn't bat an goddamn eyelid. So he banged again, "Wake up! I need in!" his voice louder now, and his banging more furious, and still he was ignored.
"Fuck!" He spat before kicking the glass of that door and walking away to a nearby bench made of Grey stone and sitting on it with a heavy sigh.
It was strange, today the air should have been cold - just as it always was - but today there was a strange warmth to it. As if the city had decided to turn on a central heating system no one knew it had.
He looked back to those damned revolving doors and saw another man, dressed in a light brown suit, passing through with relative ease. He even had the nerve to get noticed by the dozy receptionist.
By reflex John sped towards the door, hoping to get through before it rotated completely and shut him out again. He jumped, turning his shoulder, but he hit something mid-air. He landed with a hard thump that, miraculously didn't hurt, even on that hard marble.
He heard a young, familiar voice speak softly to him, "You have to be invited in. That's how it works now."
John looked up and saw a young man, that same one from the train. "Sean, was it?" He said as he stood and dusted himself off, "why don't you start explaining things and stop being so vague?"
"You're not... I mean, I can't tell you. If I do, there could be serious consequences for both you and I."
John looked him head to toe, from his strange trilby hat, past his brown goatee, the tweed coat, jeans, and to his sandals before speaking again, "See what I mean? Listen, Sean I'm having a bad day so--"
"Go back on the train, John. That's all I'll say."
John ran.
He ran like he did when he was fifteen, running miles, like a locomotive. His heart didn't feel exhausted, his muscles felt fine, his breath was calm. So he kept running until he made it back to the station, his train still there along with a small crowd, still.
He pushed his way past the people, and into the train. He moved down the cars until he eventually came to where he sat.
He saw a man's body. Same hair as him, same suit, even the same shoes. John had a strange feeling. As if -- No, It couldn't be. There was no way. That was what he repeated in his head, over and over until he saw one small mark that proved it and brought an intense gravity to his shoulders:
A small scar. On the right ear, under the lobe, in the shape of a crescent moon. John got that scar when he was nine and fell from a tree. That was his scar. That was... his body.
He heard music. A cello, playing slowly, it had to be Bach. But John couldn't name the song. The train seemed to be moving, or rather, it was John that moved. Backwards, and upwards, as if underwater and being taken by a strange current. He watched his body grow smaller, the crowd shrink to a dot, and he noticed a small shape:
A cello, and a young man playing it with a smile.
That would be the last thing John would remember, see, and experience. That smile. That song. That lifting into the bright, blinding watch of the suns eye.
"Goodbye, John... And goodnight."
The End...
