Made a little short story while listening to Motion Picture Soundtrack by Radiohead. Might’ve gotten carried away. Anyway, here it is. TW for talk of suicide? Sorry for any spelling mistakes :P
It was pouring outside. Every Thursday I had to run to the subway to get to my Grandmother’s house on the other side of the city. I had to run because the only train heading that way was at eight A.M. I was never an early riser and so I hardly ever even had time to eat before I left.
This time, I showed up right as the train was leaving. I panted as a cursed wormed its way under my breath. I looked around, I didn’t think there was a single time this subway didn’t have anyone in it. But this time, it was just me and an older woman sitting on a bench against the wall. She stared at the tracks, gripping her bag in anticipation.
That woman’s always there it seemed. Maybe if I went back a month ago, she wouldn’t be there in my memories. But for at least two weeks she’s always there, sitting.
I leaned on the same wall the bench was against. Any other day I wouldn’t have talked to anyone more than necessary but… I was curious.
“What train are you waiting on?”
My brows furrowed. “What?”
“I guess that would be the wrong thing to say. Just one. A very specific one with very specific conditions.”
Something told me I didn’t want to know, but I wanted to know anyway, “What are the conditions?”
“I’m waiting for the station to be completely empty, right before a train gets here, so I can jump onto the tracks and die.”
I stared at her. I stared because what else could I say?
She talked anyway, “You must be thinking, ‘why tell you?’ Well, I don’t know. Maybe it’s some plea for help, maybe I’m betting on you being another victim of depression so you understand, and not do the right thing and get help. Maybe you’re not depressed but are thinking ‘we’ve all been there.’ Maybe you think suicide should be up to the person and not prevented. Who knows.” She had the audacity to giggle. “It’s all a dilemma, isn’t it? I mean, why don’t I just choose a different way to die, if I’m so determined? Why wait until it’s empty? Well, only because I don’t want to make anyone witness a death. But here I am, making you bear the weight and knowledge of my intention.”
I sat down. “I’ll wait with you today, then.”
She didn’t seem surprised, simply smiled. “You missed your train today. It was on time for once. Why wait? Just to clear your conscience? You could just call the police and be on your way.”
“I think you’re less so wanting to die, more so wanting answers,” I explained, as if it was a mere debate. “You talk only of questions and dilemmas. I’d like to know, what is the one that plagues you the most?”
The woman sighed and stared back at the tracks in ponder, “I don’t like contradictions. Life isn’t black and white and for some reason people are content with that but no, not I. Complications and complexities are apart of life, somedays I can find beauty in it and meaning. Those days I don’t wait for the train. But no matter how many beautiful days I have, I end up waiting for the train, the train to save me and my messed up, twisted mind. The train that would not burden anyone. It’s foolish, I wish to die because in order to not, I need to change. But I’d rather bet on being born with that change than do it now. It feels like the things I want changed are fundamental, core principles. My dilemma with morality and righteousness being one.”
“But would you be human without it?” I wasn’t scared. Maybe that made me messed up and twisted like she claimed to be, but I think I was being the person the lady needed. Someone to listen to her, so she could advocate for one side of the argument and I advocate for the other. So she didn’t have to do it in her head, so she didn’t have to feel crazy.
“No, probably not. I’ve come to the conclusion that being anything but human would be nicer long ago. It’s not misanthropy for I do not hate others for being born what they are, but I hate myself for being born what I am.”
I nodded, looking onto the tracks as well.
“Where do you go every time you catch the train?” She asked, not letting the silence linger for long.
“My grandma’s. She’s nice and old. I don’t have much longer left with her so I visit every Thursday, in hopes I don’t regret the following Thursday’s I could’ve spent with her, if she was still there. I suppose I’ll have to miss today.”
“And what if today’s the unlucky day where she dies?”
“Mm. I’ll have some regret, of course. But I’ll be okay knowing that I prevented your death.”
“Ah. You noticed it too?” She looked at me with another laugh. “The station is miraculously empty today. But you. A train is set to come by in ten minutes. What would you do if I decided that I should forego that rule today?”
I wondered, drifting my gaze to my shoes. “…I don’t know.”
“I hate not knowing, don’t you?” She leaned back.
“If you die, I’m sure you’ll die not knowing some things.” I met her gaze.
“Out of all things, I’ve made my peace with that. No matter what, I’ll die not knowing. So, I don’t really care. I just think that if I die, I’ll stop hating. So, I’ll stop hating not knowing. Does that make sense?”
“Plenty.” I actually kind of agreed with her view on that. Of all things to be at peace with, not knowing has to be one of them. But a colorful world instead of a black and white one should be right next on the list, if not higher. Otherwise you’d spend your life hating yourself and others for not being perfect. But I guessed that’s what the lady was struggling with. “You said you don’t always sit here?”
“No. I have good days, weeks. Once, even a month. But… it never lasts. I find myself sitting and waiting eventually. It’s up to fate whether or not I get to die, if it makes me wait and suffer until I’m better again. Because that’s all you really can do, isn’t it? I’ve done all the self-help books, all the therapies… and all I can find myself doing is waiting for the rain to pass. Whenever I get this way, all I can do is wait. I’ve come to accept that this is just what life is, a series of highs ruined by lows. Everyone has to go through it, too, and yet they’re still here. So what am I doing wrong? Why is it so unbearable for me?” Her tone was winded and long, like a philosopher’s. Not the one a stranger spiraling would have.
“I think that’s a little too much for me to be able to answer,” I found myself being betrayed by my lungs and laughing, just like she did earlier. It was serious and I was laughing. But she laughed with me and it made me feel a bit better.
The ten minute train finally passed, zoomed by without stopping like it always did. It made our laughter die down.
She let out a sigh, mournful or relief, I could not tell. It was very likely both. “I suppose you may go now.”
“But there’s still no one else here.”
“But there’s no train to throw myself in front of anymore. Not until the next two hours and thirty-eight minutes, at least.”
“But how are you so sure more people will show up?”
“I’m not. The whole point is that I don’t know anything, dear. If you head to the next subway station, you can catch the next train to your destination. Only if you start now, will you be able to see your grandmother. The rains even cleared, you have all the signs pointing for you to leave.”
“And if I stayed anyway?” Though I could talk to the woman about her aches and pains with as much lax as a slow-flowing river, I didn’t want her to die. I didn’t want anyone to die. Maybe it was just a human desire to be good.
“I’ll make the verdict for you,” She handed me her bag and urged me to stand. “You’re good. You’re a good person, even if you leave. Whenever you doubt yourself, say my words in your head; you are good, you are kind.”
“But…” I trailed off, staring at her, holding her bag.
“I was good, once. I was kind, once.” Her gaze grew distant, she was back to staring at the tracks, unmoving from her seat. “But those days were over the moment I pushed everyone away in hopes of a death that wouldn’t burden anyone. My grandmother wanted to hang out with me when I was a young teen, she never played an active role in my life before and I found her annoying. So, I refused. Only selfish and cruel people shoot down other people’s attempts at trying, surely. Go see your grandmother for me, for I can’t.”
I stared for a moment longer but I left with her bag still in my hands. I stepped up the stairs and she was right; it really did stop raining. I never figured out how she knew, because I never saw her again. I never found out what happened to her and I never opened her bag but I was content with not knowing, so long as I could live in a world of color. Despite her words, I preferred being not good, being not bad. If I preferred the opposite, I would’ve ended up on a bench, waiting for the train.