I opened my eyes when the train came to a slow halt in the station. It had crawled along the platform and let out one last screeching protest of its brakes before the doors slid open with a whisper and the passengers departed.
My forehead had rested against the window where my long breaths misted and fogged the glass, and I waited until I was alone before I took to my feet, shuffled sideways from the cramped seat, strode the aisle and jumped the gap between the doors and the hard, black platform waiting to welcome me. One glance up to the rafters which arched high above my head – cold, unyielding iron frames set with windows which made them appear as if they held aloft the sky itself – told me that I'd travelled longer and farther than I had intended when I'd left the house that morning.
The bedroom to the front door.
The door to the end of the path.
The path to the bus stop.
The bus to the town.
The town to the station.
The train.
The train.
The train.
Now, here I was in Brighton, hours from where my journey had begun, yet, still too close to the feelings which had driven me to take just one more step.
One more to carry me further from the pain.
One more to help me gain perspective.
One more to let me see the entire picture instead of one tiny, ugly blob of paint on the canvas that was the masterpiece of my life.
I had moved so far from the source that I found myself standing outside of the emotional gallery of existence which held said masterpiece of my life, unable to see that ugly blob of paint and yet able to remember the way it sat conspicuous and stubborn on that canvas – on my heart – rendering me blind to every other perfect stroke and passionate sweep.
One more step.
Through the barriers, my feet carried me onwards with such determination that I could almost believe they walked with purpose – with direction – and not so blindly that they might walk me into the sea if only to maintain the illusion that this journey had an end, and that they could convey me to it. They trod over the slick tiled floor and past the lingering wafts of coffee beans and pastries from the long since closed cafés and stalls and took me out into the brisk night air. The tang of salt carried upon the sea wind rushed into my lungs with my first breath, coating the back of my throat and rolling on my tongue. The air whipped through my legs and through my hair, exploring the swathes of fabric I'd bundled around my body, seeking out any bare inch of skin it might bite and freeze.
Not to be defeated by the unwelcoming elements, I turned up my coat collar and hunched my shoulders. My hands sank deep into my coat pockets seeking out any warmth lurking in the dark, lint-filled corners. I hadn't walked far enough, and no matter how hard the wind beat against my chest, I wasn't about to yield to it. Nothing would hold me back until I was far enough to forget.
Far enough to stop caring.
Far enough to simply... stop.
YOU ARE READING
The Hour With You
Short StoryI stepped from the train with no journey in mind, only a desire to be far from what was behind me. There on that night he said to me a word with such promise, such hope, and such kindness that no two syllables ought to be able to contain it. 'Hello...
