SUMMARY: He can't help but go through this, everytime he has to visit.
A/N: First, sorry this section is so short by the way, but the second to last one makes up for it...It's actually interesting having typed all this before hand and needing to just edit and review it without that incessant need to write, write more before I lose the thread.
It's winding down now, amazingly...just a few sections left. And, a final note:
Where is it said this guy is England?
Four
Excitement and Hope
There is something in the air, this day, the sixth. It thrums and dances through his bones, making him alert and ready for something he doesn't know will or will not happen. But that doesn't matter much to him at the moment as he tries to argue his way onto the subway, having been stopped by security guards with glints in their eyes that put him on edge.
Admittedly, his pants are a little torn, and his shirt a bit tight, but it's no worse than those other people who rush onto the subways everyday. So when he's stopped, he doesn't care to be cowed by arrogant jerks in crumpled uniforms.
They stare at him, and he stares right back.
"Lookie here, a Limey." One says, his voice thick and blunt. " Whatcha doing so far from home? " He isn't sure what gives him this idea, as he certainly hasn't been speaking to anyone since he entered the tunnel. "Sure you can handle facing the guys who kicked your asses across the sea?" Something in him throbs, defiant, and his face sets stiffly (voices chitter-chatter in the air, telling him of bravery and an unsetting sun). Then, this man doesn't particularly matter anymore.
He, politely, asks him what his problem is, and perhaps, maybe, could he take a mint to freshen up that atrocious breath of his. And, mayhap, do his friends need them as well.
The man turns red for a second, his eyes flashing and his arm grasping as his fellows mirror him just several steps behind.
Now, he feels that he is about to be beaten within an inch of his life, but he isn't worried. There are taller, fouler monsters than this man and his cohorts in reality, and he isn't about to waste his worry on such fleeting figures. His fists clench without a thought, and he thinks of the high seas as he dodges the first few blows. He thinks of the fierce ocean wind whipping by him, and his defiant dances with it, born from something he cannot as of now remember.
And then he smiles fondly (widely, like he hasn't for days), leaning back enough to brutally kick a man between his legs and leave him groaning with his fellows on the floor. He bids them good-bye, brushing off his striped shirt (like a heart, the sky and the sea), feeling proud of himself for some reason until he realizes his heart is beating down seconds he can't for the life of him waste any longer, and he speeds off to the train he has come board.
The trip passes by quickly as he makes a game of avoiding the eyes of the other passengers and tapping his fingers against the metal walls, in tune to a Beatles tune someone is listening to on speakers further down the train. His foot taps and his face relaxes, falling into that song as his lips mouth the lyrics:
hey jude,
don't make it bad,
take a sad song and make it better,
remember to let her into your heart…
when he sees the sign signal his stop, and he steps off without a thought.
Maybe he will make it (the possibility his mind has yet to grasp) better, one day. Someday, he thinks, and something in him erupts.
When he prepares for sleep, he pulls out his notebook and writes, and writes, and writes…
.
The message in his heart.