Coming Home

There are no trains to where I want to go.

I finally let myself realize this after a half hour of poring over the crumpled schedule shoved at me by the irritated clerk. She had blown up at me much faster than the greyhound ticket attendant, running a frantic hand through her rumpled hair, shouting "If it's not in here, we don't go there! I think you made it up! It's all in your fucking head!" after only ten minutes of my asking her to double check her stiffly polite "I'm sorry sir, I'm afraid we don't go there. I've never even heard of it."

A tear tracks down my face, back slumping defeated against the cold granite wall of the terminal. Passerby ignore me as they hurry past out of the frigid air, travelers intent on getting to wherever they're going,to wherever there is someone waiting for them. There had been a train once to where I want to go - she had left by the train, but that was a longtime ago.

I never left, but I can't get back.

My feet stumble me along the short stretch of downtown; unfamiliar storefronts mixed ajumble with faded familiarity. The colors are dingier than in the photo album at home, pictures of the two of us playing together against a backdrop of vibrant reds and blues. A coffee shop we had frequented is boarded over - a recent casualty - having been replaced by a plastic imitation Starbucks filled with cookie-cutter clones. I don't recognize anyone. I haven't recognized anyone for years now.

The street corner is occupied by some kids. Hmph. Kids. They must be eighteen - not that much younger than me. We used to look like them, at least a little. Same kind of leather jacket, same kind of attitude. They glare at me now - a certain wary threatening glance that makes me cringe inside, chasing any stray thoughts of talking to them, if those who replaced me knew where everyone else had gone.

They don't remind me of myself anymore.

The house door slams shut, but I'm still not where I want to be, I'm still not home. She made it home somehow - she took it with her when she left me - when she left here.

Maybe that lady was right - maybe it is all in my head now. Ah! That would explain a lot. That's whey there's no trains there, no buses, no highways - they can't get into my head. They need a tunnel. I'll have to fix that myself.

I fondle the phallic revolver (appropriately snub-nosed) slowly - a crude method of tunnel-making, but efficient. I am no engineer, no surgeon,but the tunnel has to be made, and the sooner the better.

The cold metal slips along my forehead.

I close my eyes, and see her meeting me at the station when I disembark,her arms flying about me in an embrace that will never end.

I'm coming home.

When I pull the trigger, I hear the train whistle in the distance.