the tales of sodor's engine

Diesel's demons

Diesel the Devious Engine had played one trick too many. Having nearly gotten Boco and his passengers into a serious accident, Diesel was relocated to the scrapyard to be far away from the other engines.
   
Diesel was not at all thrilled to be working at the scrapyard. Despite his arrogance and pride, Diesel was secretly terrified to be anywhere near the scrapyard. He considered it a desolate place.

When he arrived that evening, a scruffy-looking foreman barked orders at him.

“You’re on night duty tonight. Do as you’re told and we won’t have any trouble.”

“What are my duties?” Diesel said meekly.

“You’re a shunter, aren’t you? Shunt the scrap engines into line to be cut up.”

“Yes sir,” Diesel sighed.

Diesel slunk over to the sidings where he found many old, rusted engines with “SCRAP” written in broad letters across their tanks. He gazed at their lifeless faces and was overcome with a sense of dread. He had never been to a scrapyard before and didn’t realize just how awful it was to see an engine who was no longer alive.

Diesel felt sick and couldn’t stand to look at the engines anymore. Shutting his eyes, he quickly shunted the engines into place. The cutters prepared their torches, and soon began removing funnels, domes, smokebox doors, and everything in-between.

As Diesel sat and watched the cutters at work, many things were suddenly put into perspective for him. He had spent many years teasing the steam engines about how they would be scrapped to make way for the diesels, but in his teasing he never stopped to think just how terrible it is to scrap an engine. Piece by piece, the engines were reduced to mere shells, and then into nothing altogether. These engines were once living, breathing machines, but now they were the same as all the other scrap iron. Diesel felt an overwhelming sadness for engines he had never met.

    Later that night, Diesel returned to his shed a much wiser engine. His first night had been sobering. He peered up at the moon, feeling as a prisoner must feel – trapped and alone.

    “I really upset Sir Topham Hatt this time,” he said to himself. “And now I’m paying for it.”

    Diesel had a lot to think about, indeed.

    The next night, Diesel returned to the scrapyard to begin his shunting. He was sorry to see that there were more derelict engines ready to be cut up for scrap. Diesel couldn’t be sure, but something felt…different…about these engines.

Then, a thick fog started to settle among the sidings. The moonlight reflected eerily off the rusted boilers of the scrap engines. Diesel heard what sounded like a faint whisper echoing from the bowels of the old engines. Diesel listened intently as the whispers grew louder. As the words became clearer, he felt a chill run down his back.

    “You did this…you did this…you did this,” the echoes called.

    “What did I do?” Diesel called.

    “You’re the reason why we lost our way.”

    “But I never sent anyone for scrap!” he cried.

    “You wished it on us, and you should be ashamed. We were the steam engines you tricked, and your tricks made us lose our lives!”

    “I’m sorry if I made any steam engine fall off the path. I promise I will never do it again!”

    “Don’t forget that you will one day be scrap, too!”

    Then, the whispers ceased, and the yard fell silent. The old engines stood tall against the night sky in their last stand against Diesel. 

Diesel didn’t know what to say, but he knew that he needed to leave. Without speaking to anyone, he slunk silently away into the night. He didn’t know where he was going or what he would do, but anything was better than facing his demons in the cold, damp sidings of the scrapyard.