In The Dead of the Night

01 | creaking train

The shattered clock on the lamppost struck midnight just as the train started to move. I took the icy rails and pulled myself into the cart. My shadow distorted in the pale moonshine, transparent like broken glass, darkened by deep grey clouds. Looking back, I saw my father nod at me.

"For this moment, and every moment forward," he called out to me, his voice a deep melodic hum that could get us out of any situation. 

"For this moment, and every moment forward," I whispered back to myself, the traces of my voice being lost in the roar of the engine coming to life. The words engraved on our walls in a thousand different languages, the words he'd said to me every night since before I knew what they meant, the words that were supposed to outline my life. 

I pulled myself fully into the cart with only the wind trailing behind me. I swayed on my feet. The train rocked from left to right, creating creaking noises that echoed through the small metal cart. 

There was one pair of seats and an overhead luggage holder, which would serve no use to me as I was told to not bring anything. I sat down on the first seat and leaned my head against the window behind me. I let my hair down from its tight braid and let it flow down my back. Only a few nights ago, I was an 18 year old girl who already thought she was different enough, being the only child of one of the most influential figures of our underground world, the girl who was certain to be his heiress. Now I sat on an old, breaking-down train on my way to somewhere far away, hidden by all means. A night ago, my father told me what was going to happen today. He told me I would get on a train that would come here at 12 a.m. sharp with nothing but myself, and I would stay there without question. 

I should've known. My father wouldn't tell me a single thing more than what I needed to know. He said it left more room for curiosity. To me, it left more room for fear. 

I closed my eyes, blocking out all of my thoughts for a moment. The trip would be a long one, he'd clarified the place was far from this mess of a town. I stretched my legs in front of me and decided to whip off my jacket to act as a pillow. The freezing wind stabbed through me like a thousand ice cold daggers, chilling my bones. I shut off my mind, and waited for sleep to arrive. 

... 

One might think that a life such as mine would be spotted with plenty of dreams, or more likely nightmares. For many years, I wondered why that wasn't true. My nights were always and had always been the same: dark, blank, and still. And I wanted to keep it that way. Sleep was the only time where I could close my eyes and do nothing, feel nothing, be nothing.

When I woke up from the bellows and cries of the cart pulling to a stop, I saw barely any difference from the blackness I had woken up from and the dark paint that covered the ground and sky in front of me. The train was pitch black as what was around it. I could only make out faint shapes— a large rectangle in front of me, a smaller one a little ways past it, and a long strip of flat land behind. 

Slowly, I stood from my seat. I stumbled out of the cart and felt my foot meet hard, frozen ground, sending a jolt through my leg like a hot dagger stabbing up my ankle. No one had told me what to do past this point.

I staggered few steps forward until I could see the smallest hint of a light coming from what appeared to be a building. Between the numbing darkness and the sleepiness that still clouded my brain, I ran towards the light without a second thought. It grew brighter and brighter until I could separate the three separate light bulbs that shined through the thick glass of the window, tiny beacons that seemed to shine as bright as the sun in the absolute blackness. 

I twisted the doorknob.

The door opened silently. My breath halted as my heartbeat seemed to stop, eyes flicking across the little of the room I could see, tip-toeing through it. The room was lit only by the faintest, golden light being cast by four hanging lightbulbs. It was much larger than it seemed from the train, with an undeniably rectangle shape that gave it the look of an abandoned warehouse. The floors were concrete and grey. In one corner, the one my eyes went to first, was a desk. In the other was a bed. My eyebrows furrowed, I walked over to the bed. 

"You've arrived," said a voice. I jumped a little, my heart pounding. The voice was quiet, calm, and intimidating. 

"The train took me here," I responded, the slightest shake entering my voice. Normally, keeping cool was a skill of mine, one attained through years and years of conversations with hardened criminals as we discussed why exactly they'd decided to waste my and my father's time, but the subtle intimidating tone of that voice made it difficult to think of a sentence more complex than the one I had just uttered. 

"That train hasn't moved for 20 years. I'm surprised it made it halfway." 

I took a step closer to him. A figure stood from the bed. 

"Who are you? How does my father know you?" 

"Your father saved my life five years ago. I wonder why he hasn't told you that you'd be coming to me." 

"He doesn't tell me many things." The figure walked into the light. He had brown curls and golden, piercing eyes, and he wore a critical expression on his face, as if he were analyzing my every move. 

"Why did he send me to you?" He took a step closer to me, his stare making me feel small under him. 

"I only have 21 days to teach you how to be fearless, but you know damn well that I'll do it." He finished the sentence in nearly a whisper, one that sounded like darkness and suspense and determination all packaged into one. 

I looked down, his piercing golden-eyed stare becoming too much for me. My entire life had been running and hiding from whatever scared us, moving to a different city every new moon. We, my father and I, had done anything and everything we could to protect us from harm. The idea of being fearless tempted me. 

Taking in a sharp breath, I asked, "When will we start?"