The Last Train to Nowhere

The rain lashed against the window, thick sheets of it blurring the already featureless landscape. Black. Just black. The old train rattled, a constant, low growl that vibrated through my bones, through the cheap fabric of the seat. Empty car. Just me and the rhythmic squeal of the wheels on wet tracks. An easy escape. That’s what I told myself. A clean break. But my hands, they wouldn’t stop shaking. Not even a little. Clenched tight, white knuckles, like they were trying to hold onto something that was already gone.

I can still see his face, you know? Gary. My best friend. My business partner. The man who loaned me money for my mother's funeral, no questions asked. The lines around his eyes, usually crinkled with laughter, pulled taut, carved deep with something I’d never seen before. Betrayal. Disbelief. A look that ripped a hole right through me, worse than any punch. He didn’t scream. Didn’t even yell. Just stood there, the printout of the bank transfers limp in his hand, like it was a death notice for us both. “Arthur,” he’d whispered, and his voice broke, “Why?”

Why. Yeah, why. It always starts small, doesn't it? A couple of hundred on the ponies, just to feel something, anything, after Ma died. Then it’s a grand. Then ten. Before I knew it, I was chasing losses with borrowed money, then with company money. Just a loan, I swore to myself. I’d pay it back. A big win, a lucky break. The numbers on the screen, they were just numbers. Not real. Not like the look on Gary's face. Not like the cold knot that had settled in my gut, squeezing tighter and tighter with each bet placed, each digit moved.

The night I did it, the big one. Five years of Gary's life, his kids' college fund, our damn pension. Just a few clicks. My finger hovered over the 'confirm' button, sweaty, slick. I remember the sickly yellow glow of the monitor reflecting in my dilated pupils. My breath hitched. I could hear my own pulse drumming in my ears, a frantic, desperate beat. Just for a moment, I saw a way out. Not a way to win, just a way to stop the bleeding, to cover the mounting pile of debt that was suffocating me. And then I hit it. The click was tiny, almost silent, but it exploded inside my head, blew everything to hell.

For three weeks, I walked around like a ghost. Smiled at clients. Ordered coffee. Even had a beer with Gary after work, pretending everything was normal. My tongue felt thick, my throat dry. Every phone call, every email, every shadow in my peripheral vision, made my skin prickle. I was waiting for the axe. Imagining the thud. The relief of it, almost. This fake life, it was worse than the gambling, worse than the debt. It was a prison built of lies, and I was the only inmate. But it was a solitary confinement where I still had to pretend I was free.

Then Gary called me into his office. That morning, I knew. Before he even spoke. The air felt heavy, like thunder rolling in. He didn't have to say a word. Just that printout. My name, the company's name, the figures, stark and damning. My stomach bottomed out. I tried to speak, tried to stammer something, anything, but the words caught in my throat, tangled. My eyes burned. I just stared at the floor, at the scuffed toe of my shoe, wishing the polished wood would swallow me whole. He said, 'Get out, Arthur. Just get out.' And I did.

Packing was a blur. A duffel bag, a few clothes. A wallet mostly empty. A phone I’d never turn on again. Didn't even look back at the apartment. Didn't call anyone. My sister, she’ll hate me. My mother, she’d be ashamed. There was no going back. Not after this. The thought of facing anyone, of seeing that look on anyone else’s face… it was too much. I was a coward. I knew it then. A damn coward, through and through, running from the mess I’d made, leaving it all behind, a toxic spill for someone else to clean up.

The station was deserted, slick with rain and shadow. The ticket clerk, a kid with sleepy eyes, barely glanced up. 'One way to Dover,' I mumbled, not looking him in the eye. Dover. A port. A ferry. Another nowhere. The destination didn't matter. Only the direction. Away. Away from the shame, the guilt, the ruins of my life. The platform was cold, concrete smelling of wet earth and stale cigarettes. When the train pulled in, a monstrous iron beast hissing steam, it felt like judgment, like a final, unholy reprieve. I climbed aboard, shoulders hunched, heart hammering.

Now, here I am. The last train to nowhere. The confession, it's not for some priest, some cop, some judge. It's for the darkness outside this window, for the rain beating against the glass, for the empty seats around me. It’s for Gary, for his kids, for everyone I let down. I got on this train to disappear, but the ghost of what I did, that's sitting right beside me. Breathing with me. It won't let me alone. And the nowhere? It's not out there. It’s right here, inside my chest, a gaping void where my life used to be.

I close my eyes, and I can still see Gary’s face, not angry, not yelling, just broken. That’s the worst of it. The brokenness. And the train keeps rolling, cutting through the dark, carrying me further and further from everything I ever was, every person I ever knew. My name, it feels like ash in my mouth. Arthur. Who the hell is Arthur now? Just a man on a train, heading into the black.