A Train to Minsk

I've got a thing about people. See, I’m not very good with them.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. People say that all the time. Get over yourself, pal.

Ordinarily, I’d agree with you. But for me it's a real fact.

Truth is, I can see things other people can’t – things that aren’t visible on the outside. They’re mostly thoughts, feelings, emotions of sorts. They emanate out of the people like an odor only I can smell. It’s kind of disturbing, if I gotta be honest.

The whole, “It’s a blessing and a curse” thing could easily be applied to my situation, though I can’t really see a silver lining in it like other people might.

I’ll give you an example.

When you look at a guy sitting across the train from you, what do you see?

You might see a round, curly-haired man in his sixties, wearing an oversized suit that's got a coffee stain from twenty years ago. But the guy's one of those lab coat-wearing science whizzes who doesn't really think about what’s acceptable dress nowadays. No offense to sciences whizzes.

He's all puffy in the cheeks and oddly out-of-breath. There's a foggy layer of condensation smeared on the inside of his glasses.

When I look at him, I see that too. There’s nothing overly thrilling that could pick him out of a crowd – according to most people. Not me, though.

For me, I see the nitty gritty stuff. It’s more than just his name, rank and serial number – Ivan Petrov, Chemical Physicist, born seven, fifteen, eighteen ninety-two. There’s a whole lot more, buried – or maybe not so buried – beneath the surface. Where other people fail to see it, I can see it clearly, like it’s sitting out in the open. It’s really not that pretty and, since we’re being honest and all, I’d rather not be the one that sees this stuff.

But here we are.

What I see is an overly analytical brain mixed with low self-esteem and an irrational desire to live on the edge. The thing he hates about himself, which is also his avenue for living on said edge, is his low-key identity as a kleptomaniac. I mean, seriously. What the heck? This guy couldn’t think of anything better to do?

Looking at him, I see he’s just as confused with his life choices as I am. I can tell this is the equation he can’t quite solve about himself because it doesn’t make any logical sense. Plus, the guy’s a putz – shy, fidgety, probably trips over himself when he’s talking about anything other than chemical equations. There’s absolutely no confidence in this guy whatsoever. It’s no wonder he feels such shame every time he nicks an extra chocolate bar at the drug store or whichever. Yet, he can’t seem to stop himself either. Every day, he’s trapped in a never-ending cycle of trying to prove himself, and every day he fails – on this day most of all.

Today, this meager wannabe of a criminal hit an unlucky break – one he’s now trying to use his intellectual faculties to get out of.

Thing is, this guy just stole half a million dollars' worth of diamonds disguised as a Christmas ornament. Of course, he didn't realize it at first. He just thought he'd swipe something nice to send to the granddaughter he only sees once a year.

What’s more, the thing – or rather, the person – that got him to realize what a big mistake he made was sitting somewhere on this train, hunting him like one of those wild cats in the grasslands of Africa. I remember reading about them in an issue of National Geographic once.

That’s the mafia for you. But can you blame them? They practically own Belarus. Every storefront, every market stall, every street corner's got some mafia member's name written on it. A drop like that is a cakewalk, and everybody knows it's no skin off anyone's nose to look the other way. That's just how it is.

This particular drop was no different. It was supposed to go like clockwork. Instead, it got unilaterally messed up by some low-level physicist with social issues and a bad haircut. I’d be pissed off, too. The guy should have known better.

Oddly enough, when I look at him, clutching the little box that holds the ornament, I can’t see who the hunter is. But from the look on Klepto’s freaked-out face, he knows what it is he’s stepped into, knows how stupid and pathetic his little habit is. Because instead of it simply being a guilty pleasure he indulges in every once in a while, now it’s gonna cost him. The way he keeps looking around, all jumpy-like, it’s obvious he’s not ready for that. But who would be?

I realize now that I've been watching him for about fifteen minutes or so. I'm not sure when he got here. I'd been asleep and, quite honestly, don't remember getting on this train at all. I had a vague idea at some point that I needed to go somewhere, but I don’t even have a ticket. I’m so wrapped up in this man's inner demons, I’ve pretty much forgotten what it is I’m doing here.

I might as well tell you that I’ve got this other thing, too.

It isn’t much of a problem – only at times, I guess.

See, I wake up every once in a while with a kind of strange feeling. I can't really describe it, but it's like an urge – a specific call to connect with someone.

I think that's why I get these visions of other people, people I've never met. Maybe it's why I can see inside them, know things about them no one else knows.

I feel like it's been happening for a while; I can't really say how long.

I'm sitting back a ways on the train, hunched down low in my seat. I guess I fell asleep that way.

Snow’s falling outside. I’ve got a jacket on, the collar pulled up tight around my chin. That’s when I realize I’ve got grease on my hands.

Come to think of it, the train’s going pretty fast, I say to myself. I can’t see the landscape outside. Everything’s a mask of white, shielding whatever else is out there. Are trains supposed to go this fast?

I look back over at the guy and see he’s staring straight at me, like he’s found me; or maybe it’s the other way around. I sense one of those emotional waves flooding over to me like a rich cologne.

I can see an alarm going off inside him. His heart rate quickens. Whatever timid fear he felt before has turned into a full-blown look of terror.

The urge intensifies, and just like that, something clicks in me as well.

Without thinking, I stand, facing him in the middle of the compartment. There are other people around and they seem to catch the uneasy air that’s settled in about the place.

Klepto simply looks at me, unmoving. He seems frozen, like the icy fractals clinging to the windows.

I reach for something hidden in my coat. It’s like an instinct. I didn’t know I had it, but I know it’s there as my hand closes in around it.

I draw it out and point it at the man.

That seems to trigger him.

He rises in a frantic mess and tries to make a run for it.

I watch him turn, bolting to the sliding door of the compartment.

My fingers form a light squeeze.

The sound of a gunshot lights the scene in a haze of smoke and putrid fumes.

I hear the ornament inside the box. It falls along with him and tumbles to the floor between us.

I’m sure the others are screaming, running, trying to get away from what just happened. I don’t see them, though. All I see is the back of Klepto’s faded suit jacket. Now, the thing is totally unwearable.

The urge starts to dissipate, like it’s somehow been satisfied. That's a little disturbing, too. The fact that he’s dead somehow feels right.

I take a few steps and reach down, gripping the box.

Oh, I remember, I think to myself, frisking it away inside my pocket. The train’s going to Minsk.

I stare out at the little white pellets flashing past the train. At least, it was.

Another urge envelopes me. This time, it startles me.

I stand and turn and that’s when I see her.

Katya.

Like an angel of death, she stands before me, grinning like a demon.

She opens her mouth, her words like broken glass, scratching in my ears.

“Welcome back, Ivan,” she says, eerie laughter filling the car.

It feels like something hits me on the back of my head. Everything goes black for a second as the train car swirls in on itself.

I’m pretty sure that’s the last thing I remember before waking on the train.

My neck’s got a kink from hunching over so long.

As I glance out the window, I see the snow’s picked up again. Trees pass by like little white fluffs on an iced Christmas cake, then fade into oblivion as the train gains momentum. Man, it’s going fast, I think to myself.

I start to wonder how I got here. I don’t think I have a ticket and I don’t remember where it is I’m going.

I know what you’re thinking. Careless. How can a guy not know where he’s going? Yeah, you’re probably right.

I look around, observing my surroundings, and see a guy sitting across the way. He doesn’t see me, but there’s something about him. He seems familiar. I don’t know why, but I have this feeling all of a sudden, like an urge.

I should probably mention, I’ve got a thing about people…