Train Wreck

In a world of fluidity, his night air is filled with the stench of stagnation. The scent of clothes in dire need of a rinse cycle smothers a corner of his room. Across the room stands an empty bottle of Jack, surrounded by the long extinguished remains of cheap, stale vending machine cigarettes that once filled his lungs with the self-destructiveness he delivers to himself with growing regularity. The pack from which these remains came lay crumpled near the door, a constant reminder of his present moment.

The lone light bulb he needs to paint the room in a yellow glow miserably fails, exasperated by the continually declining condition of a dying street lamp on the street below. Flickers of street light, a dim ceiling light, and no smokes…no Jack…the life he now lives reflected back.

How does one find cause in a train wreck, a train wreck consuming itself? A glimmer of hope that ceases to exist, a wreck of a promising life lay on his floor in ruin…but how? Why? When? Memories are fleeting when he needs them the most; the future that greets him is more dire than most. A riddle, a mystery, the unsolved crime of life permeates him this very stale night.

The essence of light, so pure in theory, now leaves the future closed and dreary. His hands held to his face, a quiver in his knees, as he ponders his fate again and again. No air enters through the window on the wall, no hope descends…no prayers are answered.

A faint sound of laughter enters his ears; only the right one at first…then over to the left. He thinks to himself, “It is 4am, who besides my kind and lovers are still awake?” The laughter grows louder, and takes over everything; he is startled when the faint light bulb suddenly does its job. Annoyed and scared, he throws his head out the window, to a vision that stuns his emotionless self.

A couple walks, obviously homeless, and the happiness that holds them rudely grabs and holds him too. Stunned and angry, he laughs at himself. His anger grows at the hold of this happiness, leading to more laughter. “I am so angry at their intrusion; why can I not stop laughing?” The brick hits him. Unexpected. Hard. Unyielding in weight and force.

The moment passes, he opens his eyes. The early morning rays of sun reveal the sharpness of the cracked paint that defines the ceiling he now stares at. Memories of the night are vivid, but the emotion of the night forgotten. He rises from the floor, rubs his head, yet feels no bump…no pain. The memory of the brick is vivid, and yet there is no wound, no aftereffect, no brick.

A smile cracks his face as the sunlight begins to seep through the cracks between the surrounding buildings to flood his room in light. The warmth of the world has returned, the warmth of his soul has returned with it. Alive, warm, and happy…a rebirth of a life starting anew.

He walks to the door, bends, and gently removes the crumpled cigarette pack from the floor. He pauses for a moment before placing it gently in the hungry trash basket. Searching the room, he spots the cigarette remains, the empty bottle of Jack, and uses them to feed his hungry trash basket.

The room is now free of his self-destruction. He walks to the door, opens it, and closes a chapter of his life, leaving behind a now satisfied trash basket and a smothering pile of clothes in a corner.