When I set out to meet the group, I never knew how terrifying it would be. Walking the streets alone, knowing that each step brought me closer to treason, which equaled death. I knew if I was caught, I would be dead, my family shunned, my friends interrogated to their wit’s end. Did you know what she was planning? Did you know these people, the ones she met up with? Did she ever exhibit any signs of stress, or desire? They’d know nothing, because the truth was that everyone I knew was a law-abiding, honest, true citizen. They never had any urge to touch another human being, nevermind hand-holding. Even Jake, the rebel of our group, would never go that far.
But once you have physical contact with another human being, it changes you. She was just a stranger, really. I met her on the metro. I was sitting in my own cube, just minding my business, honestly, when she happened to trip walking past. I say trip but she was so suave about it, so in control, that I’m almost certain she did it intentionally. She fell, and I reflexively moved to the side, out of her way. Yet, somehow she managed to graze my hand, and I felt something. It was almost like I’d been missing something my whole life, and now I’d only just gotten it back.
She smiled at me, and muttered an apology, and hastily left my cube. However, she dropped a piece of paper as she hurried away, and I grabbed it up and read the words on the paper. 221B Baker Street, it proclaimed. Just that. No other words on what was really only a scrap.
That one scrap is what drove me to walking along this street, in search of something that could likely get me into a magnitude of trouble. There’s no guarantee that these people, if there are more than that girl, will even help me, but I’m relying on her smile. She seemed so confident, like she knew just what she was doing. She was intent, and I don’t know if she chose me randomly, or if she saw me and thought, that one. That’s the one who I’ll choose.
As I make my way closer and closer to Baker Street, the roads gradually become darker and less cared for. There are missing patches of asphalt and concrete, broken street lights, and houses that, at a glance, looked like something halfway demolished, like the workers just up and left in the middle of their job. Perhaps, in the light of day, this would all look better, but my choice to travel at night is something I would not rethink. Even though I haven’t seen another person for almost an hour, there is always the chance that I could be recognized.
Alithea is a small town, though it is built on oil rich ground. Because of this, there is almost no homeless population, and there is no shortage of jobs. Most of us don’t need to work, though. Chances are that if you live in Alithea, you come from old money, as there’s been almost no realty here for almost fifty years. If there was, the houses would go for almost a million dollars. Everyone says the oil will soon run out, but they’ve been saying that for twenty years.
Finally, I reach Baker Street. The houses here are even more decrepit than before, and I start to wonder if there will be anything at 221B. What if there is? There’s no real chance that anyone there will understand, but as I make my way down the street, I see a flicker of candlelight in a window. The number on the mailbox in front is hard to read, but I can almost make out the numbers. There are definitely four, I can tell that much. I quicken my pace to a jog, my feet tapping out an irregular rhythm on the sidewalk.
As I near the house, the candle goes out. At first, I think it may have just been the wind, from one of the many holes in the house, but it does not relight. When I reach the building, nothing is moving inside. I can faintly see shapes, but it is almost blindingly dark indoors. I reach the door, and knock.
Nothing happens. I’m almost relieved; there isn’t anyone here. But after just a minute, when I’m torn between walking away and knocking a second time, I hear footsteps from inside. Before I can decide whether to run away, the door opens. Standing in front of me is the same girl from the metro, along with a man, possibly in his 50’s.
They are holding hands. The girl smiles at me, and leans back to yell at someone.
“It’s her! I told you she’d come. $10, Marty.”
The man next to her smiles, and hands her a bill, then reaches for me. I almost shrink away, before I realize that these people know. They understand what I’m going through, so I smile and take his hand. Somehow, I feel connected to these people.
This is how I ended up in the place where it all started, the train. We’ve been trailing the boy for months, seen how he’s acted. We’ve agreed, and today’s the day. I slowly walk past, waiting for the perfect moment. The train lurches, and I fall, my shoulder grazing his arm. He stares at me, stunned into silence, and I smile at him, like Susan did to me.
“Sorry,” I whisper. Then I exit his cubicle, ‘dropping’ a piece of paper. I know he’ll pick it up, because he felt it. Now, I wait for the next stop and rejoin Suse, Marty, Jace, Elena, and the rest. We’ll wait for him.
They always come to us. Just like I did, like Suse did, like Marty, Carol, and Luke did.
Once you feel it, you don’t ever give it up.
