Down The Train Tracks *Jason McCann*

Down The Train Tracks. ~Ch.17 ["Hello World, I'm your wild girl." 2]

Melody.

I leaned over Jason, who was looking through the clothes on the rack as instructed; funny how the roles have changed, now I’m the one telling him what to do. That’s not going to last very long, though; we both know that.

I’m still disgusted every time he touches me. His touch makes me feel almost dirty, and I can’t look him in the eyes anymore. He was the only one I’ve ever really let look in my eyes, and now I can’t even touch him without reliving that day.

Even after everything that happened, I still know it could be a lot worse. He could be a fifty year old man, or he could be Johnson. Or, he could have done what he did as a ‘punishment’ instead of saving both our lives. I guess since I know the reason why he did it, and that I know it was a pretty good reason, it makes it easier. Not easy, but not as hard as it would be if things were different.

In a way, you could say he was raped too. Jason was forced into it too. I didn’t really think of it that way until two nights ago, and I guess I’ve kind of warmed up to him a bit since then. But, things are obviously still bad.

Trying my best not to brush against him, I stood behind him on my toes, stretching up and slowly reached for a black shirt.

“An bhfuil tú faggot? Fhéachann tú mar is mian leat chun é a chur suas ar an asal,” I whispered to him slowly, making sure to enunciate clearly with my mouth close to his ear.

Basically, I just told Jason to go up to the shopkeeper, who I happen to know is homosexual, and say:

Are you a faggot? You look like you like to take it up the ass.

It’s horrible, I know, and in no way am I homophobic, but this was the only thing I could think of in the car.

“Sorry,” Jason said, moving away.

The man at the counter’s name is Phil. I know he’ll understand what Jason’s walking up to him to say, because the language the sentence is in is Irish –Gaelic, or if you were Irish you’d say Gaeilge, not Gaelic. My father’s Irish, he comes from a gaelteacht town in Ireland. Basically, a gaelteacht is a town where no one speaks English, and Gaelic is spoken on a daily basis.

I’ve never actually been to Ireland, and from what my father spoke of it, I never wanted to. I do now though; I guess his death sparked a new found interest in the country. I know I’ll never go, I doubt I’ll ever get the chance.

I couldn’t help but chuckle when I heard Jason repeat the sentence to Phil as best he could. He got the pronunciation right, but he was parting and spacing out his words as if he were trying to get a tourist to understand him, kind of like they do in a lot of movies, but then the tourist turns out to be able to speak English and they just look like a fool afterwards.

When I heard Phil start to shout, I looked at everyone, and to my luck, they were all turning to face the scene. Nobody can resist a bit of drama. That’s when I started shoving things up my top, in my bra, and between my belt and stomach.

I’m your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb! Hello world, I’m your wild girl, the song played throughout the shop, I love this song!

Melody, stop getting distracted! Focus!

“Who the fuck do you think you are?!” Phil started shouting, which meant I had to start picking up my pace.

I grabbed the jeans I promised Jason, and stuffed them up my back, making sure to have the right posture whilst walking so it wouldn’t drop.

“Tá tú poll asal beag dúr,” he started shouting again, Jason just stood there looking at him as if he had three eyes, four mouths and one alien antenna pointing out of the top of his head. “Cheapann tú gur féidir leat teacht díreach i anseo agus a rá is cuma cad ba mhaith leat? Ní hea, i mo siopa. Tá tú poll asal dúr! Faigh na fuck as anseo sula ndéanann mé ort brón cad a dúirt tú díreach!”