The Pavement Is Slick

Chapter 1

I can't help but stare at people on trains sometimes. I don't mean to be rude. The flashing lights. The sardine packed people. And then the beautifully orchestrated sounds of heavy breathing from the man next to me, who, indeed, does give off the perfectly duplicated stench of a trashcan mid summer, is just about enough to drive the average citizen mad. Hell, guess that's why there is so many "suicides" going around this place. People got fed up by sitting next to Mr.SunnySideTrash. I stare for the same reason people window shop. No, no, I'm not shopping for people, It's because people, or at least me, like to imagine that we're not in the place we are. That there is only that other person on the train, sitting in their own tiny bubble. Sometimes, they're standing up. Sitting down. Pressed against the door because, again, sardines. A few are reading, and their intrigued eyes are flashing along their copies of Frankenstein or White Fang. Burying their noses in a book rather than having to make accidental eye contact with the guy who is always in the corner, who always seems to be coated in a thick, rather alarming amount, of sweat. I like to imagine it's a self defense mechanism newly introduced to the human race. Homo Sapiens and Neanderthals alike. But let's not go into the dark cracks of my mind. Trust me, it's for your sake rather than my own. We can, however, focus on some of the people on the train. As I was telling you about. A few look up, and if they do, make eye contact with me. I always glance away with a hope that they didn't see me staring.

And that's when I was looking around for a distraction from Mr.SewageDrain and I saw them. They were standing, wedged, like most people, towards the back. The hair on top of their head was blonde, almost white, and it was hard to tell from this distance, but I might have been able to make out some faint dark roots. It was short, but unlike mine, hers was flat with a few ends sticking up here and there. From what I could tell, she was busying herself trying to keep eye contact away from just about everyone on the train. And that's how I spent most of the trainride. Watching someone whom I'd never meant, and just barely seen. Watching for just about as long as I could dare myself to. Someone who had to pick at already abused fingernails to pretend to be busy must have something bothering them. I genuinely want everything to go alright for her. God, I really hope this isn't a thing Sweaty Corner Man would find entertaining. What a creep.

I jolted awake when someone had accidentally, I think, bumped into me. In a daze, I rub my eyelids with the back of my hands, turning them over again to press my palms into them. Ugh, how long was I out? I glance around the train and I feel some gratitude towards sleep when I see that SewageDrain had made his way off while I was asleep. I start rubbing my eyes again unconsciously with one hand, using the other to rummage through the bag that I'd had placed under my feet. I swear, I'm never going to trust anyone in this place. I make some mediocre remark about my sandwich that wasn't taken, but I still smile faintly at my own joke while continuing to dig through the contents of the worn and torn bookbag. No money stolen either, that's a plus. I latch the thing back up after I am certain that everything is still in its place. I have to stop falling asleep on this trains. Or, at least, stop staying up to some ungodly hour of the night.

A few minutes passed before I hopped off the train. I swing the bag over my shoulder, feeling the jagged edge of a particularly heavy book dig into my side, as if posing a gentle reminder about the fact that it was very, very overdue. I casted a few glances around the area before setting off in the quickest route to my apartment. I didn't really notice the train's doors gasp close, nor the unique silence and absence of space after it rushed off. Seconds later, the Transfer Track's small trolley skidded to a stop. It had been awhile since I'd been to the outermost rings of the city. Years. Often even thinking about them brought back memories of the years spent inside a closet of a room, waiting alone in the darkness, waiting for my parents to open the door, and to hear it click behind them both. Waiting. I still remember my heartbeat speeding as fast as it could flutter, jumping into my bed to pretend to be sleeping. It was normally the only chance I'd be around them. And even if it was only ever a few seconds of bliss, I loved those moments where they would quietly sneak into my room, landing a kiss on what they thought was my dreaming forehead, sometimes even adjusting the blankets or a few shredded stuffed animals. I stood there long after the trolley sped off.