At the End
Andixa
So hey, I plowed through Sandman (on vicodin) and tried to finish a fic I had sitting around, and this just sort of popped out instead. Completely unrelated to either, and kinda melodramatic. But I like it.
It's a fairly normal train station, made of real dirt and concrete, cornered around with mold and other suspicious stains; exactly like every other station in existence - only still, so still.
The only passenger is a man dressed in all black, without any luggage. He's sitting on a bench, looking down at the floor, or sort of staring right through it. There is a thin black piece of wood next to him, a packet, a few small bottles, but he has no need for them anymore. No want of them, at any rate. Not anymore.
He closes his eyes.
He doesn't open them when the old man sits down beside him, or when he leaves some time later.
He doesn't open them when the woman sits down. She says his name, even touches his arm, before she, too, leaves.
He doesn't open them when three young men walk up, shuffling their feet in front of his bench, turning back the way they came. They're talking, saying something, but he doesn't notice. Doesn't bother to notice they're three, not four.
He doesn't open them for the thin lady, middle-aged and sour, or the bulky, sallow man beside her. Not even when the man cuffs him on the head. Doesn't even flinch.
He doesn't open them when the snake slithers past.
He doesn't open them when he hears that awful crying noise... although the corner of his mouth turns up just a little.
A sudden breeze shifts his hair, carrying industrial smells like mildew and oil. The train is here, finally. Finally.
He opens his eyes, and doesn't look back.