Trains. Oh god how I hate trains. I've been scared of them even since my mother committed... well, that's another story for another time. My name is Rose Everdeen, not Rosie, Rosa, but Rose. Can you remember that? Good. You see, as I was standing in front of the large steel snakes, I reflected on my mother, and took a deep breath. I hadn't been on a train for around 20 years, and I was positively scared to death, but I had to combat my fears sometime, right?

The station at Poole was your typical run-of-the-mill station, with a clean platform and benches at every other door. A number of various people of all ages and appearances stood of sat around the station, waiting for their own trains. Little did I know that in a few hours, seven of them would become closer to me than I ever expected. No one turned my way, but then again, why should they? I was just like them, a stranger doing her own thing.

I had just visited my 88-year old grandma, and had to do the hard task of arranging her will. Her arthritis was so serious she was unable to write, and when she did, it was in illegible scribbles. She had also been diagnosed with terminal cancer, and was set to die in a few weeks, which had upset me greatly. My grandma had been, practically, my mother as I grew up, seeing me through my first day of school, and through my graduation, my first job at McDonalds (Never EVER doing that again.), and my first baby, Chris.

Chris was the cutest baby you could ever have, he had my eyes, the beautiful baby blues, and had also inherited my blonde hair, but his was curly, while mine was straight and ran down to my shoulders. As I thought about Chris, I had a sudden spurt of anger as I thought of my traitor-husband. He had filed a divorce a year after Chris was born, and the goddamn judge had deemed me 'unworthy' of handling a baby after Chris claimed that I abused him (The nerve of the asshole.) So my husband took Chris and I haven't seen them for five-six years now, and I had tried to forget about Chris, but how can you forget about your own son that you weren't even able to look at.

The train hissed and moved over the tracks, the chugga-chugga sound making me wince and shiver, even though there was no cold breeze. I checked my watch, fifteen minutes till the train. As I leaned on my luggage, I glanced around the station, taking in the sights of foreign tourists with flashing cameras and barking dogs chasing after a few wild cats. Train staff bustled around, while the cleaners went around with their brooms, brushing an inexistent pile of rubbish.

A sniff next to me caused me to look to my right to see another woman, who I would later learn was called Lucy Norman, glance at the cleaners in disgust. I could tell she was a business woman, as she was wearing a dark blue jacket with all the buttons down up, and a platted skirt which reached her knees. Stockings adorned her legs going down to her polished black high-heels. "How ironic. The cleaners are as dirty as the things they clean." she muttered, making me raise my eyebrows at her comment and turn away, slightly shaking my head.

Ten minutes of boredom followed before the speakers squeaked, making a number of people, including me, wince at the sound.

"The Poole to London train will be coming in five minutes. Thank you for your patience." said the smooth talking female operator.

"Finally." Snorted a tall, muscled man, folding his arms. This man's name was James King, and he was one of the most scary people I had ever seen in my life (Bar my uncle.) He had short, buzz cut hair and wore a white tank-top with faded jeans. However, the thing which sketched me out was the deep scar on his cheek, like someone had cut him with a knife somewhere in the past. "You'd expect them to be on time all the time, not fuckin' half an hour later."

That was true, the train had meant to be coming at 17:30, but now it was 18:00 according to the large, digital clock hanging above the tracks. I noticed that the 0 wasn't working, making the 18:00 look like 1:80. I decided to make a toilet break and turned to a man who I would soon know as Tom White.

"Excuse me. I need to go to the loo. Is it possible you can just look over my luggage?" I asked, as he looked nice, albeit a bit nervous, like me.

He wore a faded black suit, and had a bald head beaded with sweat. He took the white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed his head. "S-sure, y-yes that's fine." He stuttered.

"Thanks." I said, turning and heading towards the ladies loos.

When I got there, they weren't in the best condition. Scribbles of "Bob loves Harriet" or "You can suck it off!" covered the stall's doors, and various other crude pictures covered the walls. I noticed a woman hunched over the sink, her brunette hair over her thin-cheeked face. Her name was Katie Fraser, and, by looking at her prominent ribs and overall thin body, I guessed she was anorexic.

"Are you okay?" I asked, always the nice one.

Katie regarded me with an expression of disgust, wiped a tissue over her wet eyes and marched out of the loos.

"Uh... you're welcome." I said, miffed. I did my business in the stall and exited, cleaning my hand, and then drying them. Well, attempting the dry them. The dryer appeared to have a coughing fit, before a layer of black dust popped out, covering my hands. "Well, I doubt that's meant to happen..." I muttered, cleaning my hands again and drying them with tissue.

Just as I turned to open the door, it burst open, almost smashing me in the face.

"Oh! Sorry! Sorry!" the woman with a face of make-up said, raising her hands. "Sorry!"

"You don't have to say sorry. It's fine." I said to the woman who would be known as Freya Holiday. She was fit, and not in the fake fit, but the natural fit. I could tell that men would be running after her, hell, I was heterosexual, but I was attracted to her slightly. She wore a tight white top with slim jeans and white trainers, showing her figure off the best.

"But... you know... sorry!"

"Stop apologizing." I said, sighing. "It is fine."

"Oh... okay, thanks. Yeah, thanks."

I shook my head at the ditzy Freya, and left the loos, going back to Tom, who was still standing by my luggage, sweating a hell of a lot for a man his size, that being not very fat, but not exactly thin.

I suddenly lurched forward as someone knocked into me, knocking the breath out of me. I turned to have a go at the person, but gasped in surprise.

In front of me stood Vincent Cold, a clown. I mean it; he was dressed in a purple suit with a blue flower which would squirt water. He wore a face of white with red rings around his eyes and mouth, as well as blush on his cheeks. He had a large red sphere on his nose, and a wild array of green hair stuck from the back of the head.

"Pardon me." He nodded, before jogging down the side of the platform, his large shoes squeaking comically.

The whistle of the train caught everyone's attention, and it rolled into the station, letting off a mass of people who were, in my opinion, the luckiest people alive, but they or us didn't know that yet.

Once the crowd was off, the next crowd surged forward, trying to find a good seat. Tom was lost before, but another man pushed in front of me, his belt of tools causing him to get stuck in the door. He wore blue overalls and a murky white t-shirt, along with a yellow hardhat, which was skewed on his head of not-so-much hair. This man's name was Harry Goldwater.

"Sorry!" he apologized, holding up the line of all the people I've described so far, trying to adjust his belt through the doorway. After a good hard tug, he was on, and soon, everyone was going to their own seats in the train.

I moved to a seat near the end of the carriage, next to the map of the train. After a few seconds, Tom appeared, flustered. "C-can I sit n-next to you?"

"Sure." I said, nodding, not bothered by the sweat coming from his forehead. To be honest, I was glad someone else was on this hell ride with me and felt exactly the same as me.

And so the train lurched forward, taking everyone on their last journey in their lives. From the arrogant James to the anorexic Katie, everyone's lives would be changed from that point onward.