Locomotive

Rory broke up with me on the train. Too soon, he said. Too fast. He told me our love was like derailed locomotive speeding down the hill side, roaring at the speed of heartbreak toward an imminent death, and now his only chance of survival was to jump out the window and hope the fall doesn’t kill him. That’s what he said, anyway. He spoke looking down, his curly red hair tussled over his eyes, his lips like razorblades. When he was done, we sat in silence. I watched him watch his feet, eyes humid and fragile, like he might burst into hysteria any second, like a time bomb. Rory: like a time bomb. He got off on the next stop, Volendam, North Holland. I watched him step down, carefully, from the train, look around at the piss stained station, careful not to meet my eye. He then walked off, stepping into oblivion, a lost child, a feral kitten, one with the space. And I thought to myself, as I’m already in Volendam, I might as well go further. I might as well go the whole f'ing nine yards, as long as I’m in Volendam. I stayed on the train.

I've always liked trains. On the train, nothing's your fault.

I waited for something to happen. The train roared. In the seat opposite me sat a boy, maybe fifteen, tall and dark. He was skinny. Skin and bone. You could see his ribs and the outline of his shoulder beneath his black shirt. His eyes were faded blue, like a sky that never wanted to be a sky. He seemed uncomfortable in his body. He fidgeted and slouched and coughed and clawed at himself. He was restless. Hasn't slept in years restless. He seemed like he might tear off his own skin at any moment. I drew him; his jawline. I scribbled deep, like I was carving marble with the black pencil. I wanted to color him, but I didn’t have my colors. I had fallen love with how the blue of his eyes contrasted the black of his hair, contrasted the white of his skin. I wanted to recreate him. I wanted to make him fat. I wanted to make him wire and clay and move him and bend him. Bend him, hard, control him, be controlled. This is my curse. I fall in love almost instantly. The train slowed; stopped. West Amsterdam, my stop. I looked at the boy, at his neck, and stayed on the train.

Me and the boy locked eyes. He seemed jolted, as if I’d woken him up. His eyes focused into mine deeply, like his entire body was being held, precariously secure, in my eyes. The boy               was intense. Maybe he was a runaway; maybe abandoned to the streets because of who he is. Maybe if I lift up the torn hems of his black corduroys I’ll find razor deep scars etched and patterned like a treasure map along the the edge of his thigh. My eyes started to sting. I looked away, out the window. The sun was setting, small on the horizon, projecting a galactic magenta across the sky. The bus zipped smoothly through the desert outskirts of the Netherlands. The cacti tangled like thick vines in the desert moonlight. I felt the epitome of hot loneliness, like the taste of blood. I noticed it and it vanished. I was tired, but I knew I couldn't sleep without Rory's warmth. I shivered. I was cold, inside, in my heart. I knew the blood feeling was the taste of guilt, knew I had hurt Rory. He was right to leave. This is my curse. I hurt those I love. I hurt those I love because when I love I feel fragile, and when I feel fragile I feel defensive so I hide and I hurt to shield myself from falling apart at the hands of another.

Time went by. Sleep was elusive.

It was dark outside, and I could see three small stars outside my window. I pulled out a cigarette and placed it tenderly between my dry lips. By the flame of my lighter, the boy appeared again, asleep, curled like a cat, his lips apart. I've known a few artists, and all, relaxed, have their lips just slightly parted. As if theres so much energy boiling up inside of them they need to open their mouths to leak some of it out, to keep from overflowing. The boy, I knew, had overflowing hot boiling bloody emotion, but now, in his sleep, he revealed himself, shamefully, as an artist.

The snack cart walked by with a flashlight. I bought more cigarettes and a blanket, spending the last 20 euro bill in my wallet. I was planning on fleeing the Netherlands. This is me; escaping the scene of the crime. I had enough money to fly somewhere and maybe live for a year before finding a job. I'm a guilty nomad, constantly covering my tracks, sneaking off quietly from the mess I made somewhere only to make another somewhere else. I had made a bunch of relationships and bought stuff and had experiences and s*** in Amsterdam, of course, but I was shedding that now, like scrubbing off a layer of dirt; putting a new canvas on the easel.

I tucked the boy in softly, pushing the blanket snugly beneath his body. I dared to kiss his cheek, praying not to wake him. Immediately I felt ashamed. I sat down, trying not to think. When I think, I get sad, or ashamed, more ashamed. But I couldn't help myself, and I thought, desperately, about decisions and meaning and love and God Jesus Christ f*** f*** f***

Why am I like this

What's wrong with me

Outside, time slowed

The pattern of the train changed, just slightly. The noise, the constant ballad of the locomotive, shifts, and something in the air vibrates, negative. Positive. HIV positive, the man in white said, eyes down, lips like razorblades. I closed my eyes. I tried not to think. The unbalanced noise of the train grew louder, and my body, loose, fell forward, and then to the side. The wheels of the train hit something hard, and suddenly everything got very fast. Through closed eyes, I saw the boy was now a cat, black, with white ears; neck; feet. The cat looked at me, sad, disappointed, angry.

"I'm so afraid," I told the cat, "and I'm so sorry."

The cat opened it's mouth but did not speak. Slowly it turned away, hopping silently out of the window, knowing the fall wouldn't kill him. Through the speaker above me, a man and white whispered a prayer for his life. But prayer is nothing on fate, and fate says fire, and fate says death. And everything was loud and everything was fast, and seconds before fire, and a minute before death, I opened my eyes.

But instead of fire, the air is cool. And I am on a cold winter beach. And the water is gray. And the sand is white. And the sky is black. And I lie down in the sand, and I let the wind touch my face, and I let the water touch my toes. And I do not think. And there is no pain. I close my eyes.

Haven't I always wanted to be a skeleton?