Queensway Station

[Justin Silverblade]

Hey all. I half edited, and was too lazy to edit the other half (but anxious to post it. ). So if there's some rough stuff that's why. But it's a nice piece. Based on a real life experience of mine. A real eye opener. Hope you enjoy!

 

- Justin

 

 

Queensway Station

 

 

I stepped off the bus and into a painting. I had taken public transportation many times before; indeed, it was my only way to get around downtown. I didn’t see a need for anything else, really. This was, however, my first time at the Queensway Station. It was a quaint little set of 6 bus stops, each with their own plastic box and benches, on an island of cement. It was surrounded by several tall structures, the only one of which I bothered to note, was a museum. Standing regally off the east coast of our platform was a town clock, decorated and supported by several thin marble pillars. Outposts to watch our travels were some old fashioned lampposts, standing tall after the city had decided to beautify the downtown streets. Akin to them grew maple trees, helping to round the station into one circular garden of yesterday.

 

When I arrived, the sky was a deep ebony. The time was right: the clock stood fast at half past 10, and the moon was enraptured with a thick cloud. The wind nipped at my jeans and sweater immediately after I set foot outside the bus, mocking me for not bringing a jacket. It was a dark mood the night brought, one that I had not noticed within the safety of the moving tin box that brought me here. Fixing my eyes firmly on my destination – shelter – I did not look back when I heard the rumbling of my former bus, leaving hurriedly to its next destination. I sat down; it was cold.

 

I methodically placed my backpack down and looked around for a moment, as I always did. I tried to not look interested in anything but my own private affairs. Keeping in with the décor, my face was as stone and felt just as cold whilst I examined the area. It was scarce: three people were behind me, in open air, conversing with only their cigarettes, and one other person was moving in and out of the museum across the way, closing up for the night I would suppose. Then, as I always did, I reached down and into my bag and retrieved my schedule. Looking for my bus I aptly fingered through the charts of bus numbers and times until I came to my bus – the number 8. 11:00. Promptly I imposed upon the garden’s monarch to find the time. When I followed its arms to find I had a half hour to wait I sighed, my mind swearing. Thirty minutes was a long time to wait, for anyone who wants to escape their own thoughts.

 

I waited and grew cold. Someone laughed behind me, and I turned to pass the time. It was the tallest man, of the three, who had chuckled. The second dropped and squashed his cigarette butt, promptly taking another smoke from the third, and lighting it up. Through my shield of artificial glass I silently deplored them. How could they find anything funny tonight? I couldn’t fathom anything enjoyable in this mural of misery. The wind picked up again, suddenly, and I writhed soundlessly. Leaves fell from the trees, and could be heard rattling down the street. I watched as they all landed on the road in front of me before rolling noisily off. The trees themselves bowed, beckoning their children to return, and mourning their loss. I watched and thought as the wind that carried them whipped at me; chilling my bone and icing my heart. Those poor things, off into the unknown to start new lives. Bah, a lie. They were leaving only to be stepped on, and forgotten.

 

A loud crunch broke my concentration, but proved my thought. The museum manager had finished, the lights had been turned off, and he had set out to go home. The leaves gave under his feet and the wind broke away at his jacket as he walked briskly out of the sight of the encircling lamps. I watched him curiously until he had walked, devoid of emotion, to the end of the road, across the crosswalk, and then into his parked car. Relief imposed its will on his stature and mixed expression wore itself on his face as he entered the safety of his car. Slowly he became comfortable and soon sped off to home. I sighed again. Everyone was always in a rush to go somewhere; so quick to find misery in the hands of triumph, to discover the nothings of the world. It is pitiable that he would try so hard to find worth, only to eventually realize we are all worthless. To act so important only to be irrelevant. So many people had chosen not to see this, even though they lived it. They lived it every damned day.

 

I looked up at the clock. 10:45. Only fifteen minutes had passed. The glow of clock was a sickly pale orange, weary of its eternal purpose: waiting for time to run out.

 

Rhyme or reason unknown to me, something caught my attention on the inside of my plastic shelter. Upon further calculative inspection, its source and secret was revealed to me. My reflection. I was disgusted. My face, in its natural state, a Mona Lisa of anger. My brow was creaseless; concern or caring had not been mirrored there for some time. The eyes, slate blue, examined their specimen carefully, detaching it from any reality around it. Finally, my lips, curved into a half frown, disapproving of the other features. It was never content, I was never content. I turned away from my reflection, I could not stand the sight of it.

 

But it was entirely too late. My mind had been guided by the fates that be, that non-existent God that I cursed, by my own damnable composition, to my self. I was forgotten. My loved ones – those I thought I loved, and thought loved me – were safe in their homes now. My friends were in the warm, away from the bite of the wind, probably laughing and chatting. They would be oblivious of me and my plight. Unknowingly, they only pay lip service to our friendship. But at the end of the day their thoughts were only ever to each other, a group I existed in only superficially. Every time I thought this false and thought that maybe, just maybe, they actually cared about me, that they actually meant the words behind their lips… I am given evidence that do not actually consider the depth of what they are saying. It is not their fault, but mine. Mine for falling into that inescapable trap of wanting worth. Wanting to be valued eternally. Nothing is forever, nothing is ultimately important! I was a fool to ever let myself think otherwise!

 

As my anger churned internally, the clouded sky began to mourn. Rain dropped loudly onto my asylum, conjuring a cynical laugh from my own gut. How ironic that the world should cry, yet I would not. That it could, and I could not. Another distaste I have for me!

 

And distaste for distaste! There is a tragedy, truly!

 

Enough.

 

The rain continued in its mild downpour, driving the three behind me to an adjacent booth. It was quiet for a time, within the reaches of my mind. I studied the water dripping from the streetlights. They were glowing in silent defiance of the darkness. I concentrated on that quietly – fighting the urge to think.

 

But it was the monarch of the garden that stirred me once again. With eleven solid, off-tune tones, it heralded for the next set of buses. I waited, my meager clothing failing as protection against the elements. I waited, and still no bus. Not surprising. Perfectly fitting. To be completely forgotten. Never mind family, friends, teachers, children, employers, no, never mind all that. The bus system itself left the island for bare. I sighed and clenched my fist slowly. I could hear the other three men curse and pace, but I paid them no mind. I tried to give nothing my attention, though drifted into my own passionless failures – my memories.

 

I was rescued before long by a ringing. It angered me slightly – I was far busy in my own thoughts, and their disruption was unexpected. But upon realizing it was my own cell phone doing the distracting I reached for it. Who could it be at 11:15 at night? “Hello?”

 

“Hey, Will? You busy?” The sound of my younger sister rang through, unaware of where I was, or what I was doing.

 

“Not really…” I lingered, consciously evaluating the question. “Why?”

 

“I need help with my homework.” I smiled, knowing how Susan disliked Math. Since I had moved out a month ago, she had occasionally phoned for help with it. I asked her what the question was, and we walked through it – step by step.

 

The bus came, finally, and I unconsciously grabbed my bag and walked swiftly over to it. Almost completely engrossed in my conversation, I had to ask Susan to hold on for a moment to pay the bus driver. I gave her a quick smile and exact change, and hurried to the nearest empty seat. The bus was deserted, save for myself and the three fellows behind me. As I settled, phone in one hand, I glanced out the water pelted window. There was the station, in a dim orange haze. My thoughts withdrew from the math problem and returned briefly to the painting I had stepped out of. I shook my head, and laughed a hearty laugh, uncaring of my scarce company. That was quick.

 

“Suze?” I returned the phone to my ear as the bus pulled away from my former thoughts and poisoned fruit.

 

“Yeah?”

 

A smile pasted itself broadly on my face. “I love you.”

 

“…I love you too William.”

Edited October 11, 2003 by Justin Silverblade

[Appy]

*smile* how often have I found myself in the same kind of situation already.. there's nothing better (or worse) then a bus- or trainstation and waiting for transportation back into the 'real life' to bring on such thoughts. (and somehow I simply LOVE stations, maybe for being the world 'inbetween'?)

Thank you for a fine read and a look upon the words that linger within. I loved the visualisation and methaphores you used!

And I think it's always great to see 'my own' pictured in words like this. Thank you