I'm running away again.
The enormous red doors of The Train Station are open as I walk through them, (of course they are, they always are) and the polished white marble entryway is before me.
I wait in line at the ticket booth looking at the time tables on the billboard above them, my eyes wandering the lines. Red, Yellow, Blue, Titanium, Cyan, Azure, Umber.
(I don't know where I'm going yet, I never do).
I used to pick one at random pointing at the times on the board, singing an old rhyme in my head to match.
Puffing steam pours through the tunnel
Colored steam from every funnel
Red for fire, black for night
White for clouds and dancing light
Blue for waves and green for trees
Yellow sets your heart at ease
Purple's gardens, orange's dances
Diamond for forgotten chances
There's a hundred million more,
Go ahead, just pick a door.
I don't do it as often anymore (too many places I've been, too many I can't go again), but I do today, a bit of levity for old times sake. I guess I need it right now, (I always do, but now more than ever).
When I hit door, my finger lands somewhere between Saffron and Crimson (not to be confused with Scarlet, or Ruby), the table is far enough away that I can’t tell.
I remember now why I stopped doing this. There are dozens upon dozens of worlds out there, but that's the thing. There's only so many (some could give you an exact number, I don't like to think of my quickly diminishing options), and I've been to a lot. So I look over the time table again.
There's a ring from one of my coat pockets. I ignore it (I should have left the phone I should have left the phone i―)
I reach for it. I want to throw it out, but my fingers won't let me, won't let me let go yet, even if I need to. I turn it on silent instead, and slip it back in my pocket.
I need to leave soon.
The man in front of me takes his ticket and heads towards the blue platform, (return trip, by the looks of it) and I step up.
"Where to?" The lady behind the glass booth hardly looks up at me. (They never do.)
I take one last look at the time table, and pick the top one. I need to leave soon. Sooner. I’ve already stayed a million stolen moments too long.
“Slate,” I tell her.
She prints the ticket, the paper the same rocky gray as the world’s namesake. She still isn’t paying much attention, but I guess she sees the time printed on it, because she spares me a short look (which is quite a lot, for a ticket booth operator in the Train Station).
“You sure you can catch that?” She asks.
The departure time written on the ticket reads 2:30 ST. Station Time. The hands on the clock above the time table point to 2:29. It’ll be close.
“Yeah,” I tell the operator. And then, mostly to myself, “I’m good at running.”
It’s close, but I manage to step on the train just as the bell is ringing for departure. I feel something clatter out of one of my coat pockets as the door closes. No time for that. I pat the pocket where the phone is, telling myself that I’m just checking, that I’ll be glad if it’s gone. It’s not. I try to ignore the breath I let out in relief. (I’ll sell it when I get there. It’ll be useless anyways.)
There are no empty seats, so I grab one of the railings above them. This train is an interesting one, all metal and plastic, shiny white stained with the dirt of a million passengers. I’ve seen some like it, but not exactly; I can tell what type of place I’ll be going to, a bit. I’ll have to buy myself a new phone. There’s a rumbling and the train starts up, faster than I expected. I grip the railing tighter.
I don’t say goodbye as the train nears the tunnel, I never do (though it gets harder every time). I don’t even look back, I keep my eyes trained forwards. (But I stick my hand in my pocket again and feel the heavy plastic beneath my fingers and switch off the silencer.) (It won’t work in a few minutes anyways.)
It rings again, and people start to look at me before we pass into the tunnel to Slate. Or, as it’s known by its residents, according to the lit up words on above the doors, Earth.
(Goodbye, Aly, I think as it cuts out.)
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