The Station

The phone is ringing.

It’s loud and shrill and ugly because they haven’t gotten around to buying a new one. The one that came with the house feels decrepit. A geriatric sort of blue and ready to crack a hip. Metaphorically.

As she reaches over to pick it up, the shadows behind the window start to move. A nameless cat oozes by, an oil slick with fringed edges sliding from glass end to glass end. Its tail scratches across the panes like an empty paintbrush on cold canvas. The thing is made of black fur and old wounds.

She picks up the phone as it leaves, going to feed or mate or die from its injuries. The handset is an awkward weight and fits in her hand like a sword made for someone else. The cord is just short enough to stress her out a little.  

“Hello?” She asks expectantly into the receiver. Light and empty breathing. It seems weightless. Like it’s being done out of habit rather than need.  

“Hello,” the voice responds.

“Who is this?” She asks. The response is quick enough that she can’t tell if she had known and just needed a push or if she had really been empty of the knowledge.

“It’s Sara.”

She says nothing for a moment. A pause. In the background, light and empty breathing.

“You’re dead,” she says. There’s an inflection on the last word she can’t parse the meaning of. Her mouth had taken control for a moment. She’s unsure of her own tone.

“Am I?” Sara says. It’s a question with the intent of a statement.

“In a car crash.”

“That’s just your version of the truth. Mine could be completely different.”

“But you are dead,” she states. A statement with the intent of a question.

“Oh, yeah. For sure. Hundred percent.”

“Then how are we talking?”

“You’re a bit closer than you think you are, so communication is easier,” Sara says. Then there’s a tiny click and a much heavier emptiness.

She stares at the phone. The handset is an awkward weight and fits in her hand like a sword made for someone else. There’s no cord to restrict it. It feels free. It’s off-white from age and constant use. The dial-tone is non-existent. She’s gentle when she places it back in the cradle, like it’s a baby. Baby in a cradle.

When she looks up, the cat is gone. So is the window. So is the couch and the table and the TV. All that remains is the ugly blue wallpaper and the ugly blue carpet and the phone on a small, round table.

It takes about seven steps to reach the door. It opens. She walks out with toes leading tentatively. She feels unwound. Like walking with a fever and too much fatigue. More ugly wallpaper and ugly carpeting. This time they're brown and gray, respectively.

To her left, nothing. A lot of something that amounts to nothing. An endless hallway with endless doors and endless ugly decorations. To her right, a man. He’s average height and average weight and wearing average clothes and his face is completely blank. But with emotion. Displaying feeling despite the lack of features. A blank sheet of skin pulled over a mannequin form.  

“Hello,” he says. She doesn’t know where the sound comes from. It feels unimportant to think on. Like climate change or institutionalized oppression. Too big of an issue to worry about in this moment. It would hurt her in some way to dwell on it.  

“Hello,” she says. She doesn’t know what else to say. It seems anxious. Awkward. Like meeting an old classmate from elementary school as an adult. In the grocery store. What do you really have to say to this person?

“Come on.” He says. He makes a couple waving motions with his fingers.

She pauses. He makes it again. On repeat. Like a program stuck on a dialogue box. Please pick a prompt.

“Where are we going?” She asks.

“We gotta get you to the station. You have a train to catch,” he says. She nods. Being late would make this whole thing so much worse.

They start to walk. Passing dozens of open doors, but not hundreds. On this side of the hall, there’s an end. At the end, there’s a door.

“That’s the fire exit,” she says. When they first moved here, Sara accidentally set it off. There’s no sign or signal. She was going to get groceries.

“The alarm’s off. We won’t get in trouble,” the man says. It sounds true. His words have the weight of authoritative correctness to them. She nods.

All the rooms they walk by are empty. Except for ugly blue wallpaper and ugly blue carpets and a phone. On a small, round table. But she doesn’t really remember. Each room leaves her mind as her field of view moves on. Maybe a lack of object permanence. Maybe something else.

She can’t count how many doors it takes to reach the exit because of this. But eventually they do.

It’s a bit cold outside. The sky is an even gray. Like someone took wet static and wiped it all into one tone. It isn’t raining, but it feels like it should be. Maybe that would be too much movement for this place.

Beside the door is a coat stand. The man takes his average coat off the hook. Hers is hanging on the other side. She can’t really think of it in much detail. But she feels comfortable in it.

They begin to walk, and everything is quiet. She can’t even hear the footsteps.

The man stops after a few minutes. He gestures to a payphone sitting in front of a pub. Her and Sara stopped counting how many times they went there after the first three months in town. The neon sign seems dimmer than it should. She remembered that it used to flicker. Now it gives off the feeling that it’s just about to go out, however long she stares at it. A dying star set in concrete. Never to pass on, but never fully living again.

She walks towards the phone. It’s ringing quietly, like it’s only slightly broken. When she picks it up and holds the receiver to her ear, she hears nothing. Pause. Light and empty breathing. So little effort put into it she wonders why they even bother.

“Hello?” She asks without much certainty.

“Hello,” Sara says.

“Where are you?” She asks.  

“At the station. You train is almost here, don’t be late.”

“But you’re dead,” she says. She doesn’t know what else to say.

“Without a doubt.”

“Then how are you waiting for me?” She asks.

“You’re getting closer. The lines are really clearing up,” she says. Then there’s a tiny click. The empty noise is viscously weighted.

She hangs up the phone. Above her, the neon sign spits softly. It feels like a predator you could be friends with. A tamed and backlit snake. It falls out of hearing after a couple steps.  

They walk some more. Passing a lot of gray and brown and red buildings, with a lot of windows and a lot of stories. The glass seems to deter looks from the outside. She gets the feeling she doesn’t want to see them.

They walk down the street. A staircase leading into the ground hums at her from the end of the road. There are black railings on both sides. She can only see a couple steps before it dips below the horizon.

“There ya go.” The man says. He points to the staircase. A sign above it says:

Subway

“Are you coming?” She asks.

“Nope. I have other people to attend to.” He says. He turns and starts walking. She just continues on. She feels sad that she doesn’t feel that sad.

The staircase is short. The lights underground feel bright in a dry way. Like sun reflecting off the sand of a blank planet. Arid light.  

Another staircase. This one is set into brutalist walls. There’re still black railings on both sides. She grabs them. She’d really just die if she slipped and hit her head when she was this close.

At the foot of the stairs a platform goes on and on. She could continue noting how on it goes, but she’s already (maybe) late. There’re tracks on both sides. She sees a bench in front of her. It’s been the subject of anger. It looks like someone took out strong emotions on it, and the damage wasn’t purely physical. She turns around and looks behind the stairs. Sara, on a plain brown bench. When she catches her peaking around the staircase, she gets up. They meet closer to the bench than the stairs.

“Hello,” she says. It still sounds like it’s on the verge of becoming an inquiry. Like if someone came behind it and pushed, it would fall into a question mark.

“Hello,” Sara says.

“I’m not late, am I?”

“Nope. Train’s coming in three minutes,” she says. She pauses. Then:

“Maybe don’t cut it so close next time.”

“Yeah,” she says. Sara nods. She turns around and walks towards the bench.

She follows her. They both take a hesitant seat. It’s made for three people. They could sit closer if they wanted to. But they both feel a little shy. Maybe. Shy in their anxiety.

The long seat is uncomfortable enough you wouldn’t want to miss your train and have to endure it that much longer. They both wiggle around, trying to find that spot.

“How are we talking?” She asks.

“You’re really close now. When you get off at your stop, you’ll finally be there. The lines’ll be wide open,” Sara says.

She nods. There’s tiny wheels in the distance. She’ll feel everything shake soon.