The route to destruction

The route to destruction  

A small drop of sweat slowly trickles from my forehead, down to my cheek before disappearing into my beard. And again. 

Although I cannot see myself, I feel as if I look flustered. Red in the cheeks, with a thin coating of water on the periphery of my eyes, but not nearly enough to be considered tears. 

I slowly scuffle my hand out of my pocket, my fingers shaking nervously as I forget why I took it out of the pocket in the first place. I look to find a more comfortable position to put them in. 

As a nearby train sets off, I suddenly become extremely aware of my surroundings. My eyes begin to follow a man in a suit, walking briskly more or less in the direction of Platform Four. He is frantically texting in one hand while latching onto his briefcase in the other. 

I then turn right, in the direction of Platform Eight, and my attention is now turned to a small middle-aged woman who is grasping the hand of a young child dressed in school attire with an evident aim of getting this boy to walk quicker.

While these individuals are here as part of their daily routine, what am I here for? Am I still at school? Do I have a job? No, I have nothing now. 

I remain stood, rather statue like, in the middle of Liverpool Street Station. 

Each person passes by, failing to make any acknowledgment of my existence. 

For what must have been no more than a few seconds, I laugh. The aforementioned coating of water on my eye begins to run down my cheek, perfectly in sync with my light but damaging chuckle. 

Again, I remove my hand from my pocket. This time I am composed. 

Slowly but surely my right hand digs into the belly pocket of my hoody. Without any further thought, I press the button. 

The button that puts an end to the route to destruction.