Alone and on Rails

I am dead. Else, this is a dream from which I am unable to escape.

Waking from a dreamless sleep I took a moment to stare at the ceiling, loathe to start another day. I first noticed the scrolling, a colorful rendition of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel adorned the ceiling of my small room. The fragrance of strong coffee brought my mind into focus. Where was I?

This was not the first time I had woken up in a strange bed, but I could not remember where I was the previous day, nor how I might have gotten here. I sat up on the edge of the bed, little more than a cot mounted to one wall. I found an elegant cup of frothy coffee and a warm blueberry muffin set on a silver tray on the only surface in the room, a small dresser. The coffee smelled rich and dark, but the flavor was far more muted, almost bland. The muffin was much the same, having a light fluffy texture, but nearly no taste at all. Next to the tray, was a folded outfit in my size, nothing too fancy, but neither was it my usual day wear, blue jeans and T-shirt.

I lifted the envelope that lay on top of the clothing and opened it, “Welcome”. One word, written in a swirling calligraphy, colored gold against the ivory paper. No signature, no letterhead, nothing to explain where I was or what was happening. I donned the clothing leaving my pajamas on the bed so I did not trip over them on the limited floor. I then stepped to the door.

The door was so narrow, I turned sideways to get through it, though it was unnecessary. On the other side I found a wall of windows showing gentle rolling hills as far as the eye could see. A soft rhythmic clicking could be heard as the hills rushed past. I was on a train, standing in a long hallway lined on the other side with doors same as the one I just traversed.

Had I taken a trip? The countryside was unfamiliar, and I still could not remember getting here or buying a ticket. I set out toward the front of the train to find someone. It was strange, as I walked to the front of the car, the silence began to make me uncomfortable. I even caught myself singing under my breath just to fill the void. There was no sound of wind outside, despite the apparent speed of the train. There were no voices coming from inside the rooms nor out. No small speakers playing light calming music hidden in the walls. Only a soft click every couple seconds that I more felt through the floor than heard through my ears. If only I had known then, no, I likely would have panicked and done something stupid.

There was no one sitting in the porter’s chair at the front of the car, nor anyone in the one at the rear of the next. I picked up my pace moving up the identical hallway in the next car. As I entered the third car it felt like stepping onto the set of a 1920s movie without the actors. A bar with an alabaster counter and mirrored back wall lined with crystal decanters, dominated one side of the room. The other was split into several small coves of comfortable looking leather or velvet chairs surrounding small tables. And of course the widows showing the ever racing, never changing hill country.

On the bar was a small bell, like one might find at the concierge desk in a hotel. Taking a seat in one of the tall chairs in front of it, I rang the bell and waited. I could not believe that anyone would leave these obviously expensive bottles of alcohol unattended for long. After a few minutes, I rang the bell again. Repeating this pattern several times, I concluded no one was coming. Spinning the chair out of boredom, I saw a glass of champagne sitting on the table in one of the alcoves. I moved over and sat across from the glass, assuming its owner had excused themselves and hopefully would return shortly. Gazing out the window was strangely already losing its fascination. While the vista was different from anything I had ever seen before, even to be considered unique or pretty, it seemed static, despite the continuing motion. There were no trees, or shrubs, nor was there any real distinction from one hill to the next. It almost seemed like the waves in a wave pool, uniform and repetitive. Yet, you would never mistake them for the waves at the beach where each one is unique.

When I started to feel hungry I realized just how long I had been sitting there. Resigning to the fact that no one was returning for the drink, I decided to go find something to eat. At the front door of the lounge car was a map of sorts. It showed five cars linked in the train though it did not show the engine, nor any other cars. The back three were all identical sleeper cars with the lounge car and then a dining car in front. I crossed into the next car and immediately felt out of place. This could have been a five star restaurant in New York or Paris. The decor demanded tuxedos and ball gowns. Though my current clothing was nicer than normal, it was still a far cry from appropriate for here. Candle light illuminated the tables and the soft jingle from the crystal chandeliers sounded musical.

As I walked through the empty dining car, a small card drew my gaze. My name, written in the same flowing letters that adorned the welcome card, marked my place to sit. Next to that card was a covered silver tray. After sitting and removing the tray lid, I marveled at the meal before me. It was just as elegant as the room in which it was served. I gently laid my napkin in my lap and used every ounce of culture my mother drilled into me as a child. Though the meal looked fancy enough to be served to royalty, just like everything else, the flavor was muted.

After my meal I quickly left the ornate room, feeling far more comfortable in the more casual setting of the lounge car. As I sat gazing into the repetitive scenery, my mind began attempting to reconcile my situation. I seemed to be alone. Though there must be other people here, or else who cooked the food? Perhaps I was on some hidden camera game show or being pranked by someone? I needed a drink.

As I pondered, I glanced around the car. A glass sat on the bar containing a couple inches of a deep brown liquid and a few ice cubes. I rushed to the bar. That had NOT been here when I walked in. The glass was just starting to form condensation, it was fresh. But I had not heard anyone, and had only been sitting a few feet away. I took a cautious sip. While the drink had the faint aroma of a strong whiskey, it did not even have the bitter taste of alcohol. If not for the burn as I swallowed, I might have been drinking water.

I spent the next few hours investigating the bar for any hidden doors or other ways the drink might have gotten there. I was unable to find any evidence of concealment or trickery. As the light in the sky began to fade, I returned to my room. I decided to forgo the dining car as it made me uncomfortable and the food had little taste anyway. In my cabin I found my bed made, my pajamas laundered and folded neatly on my pillow and a hot bowl of soup on another identical silver tray. After trying the soup and finding, again, that it did not seem to have a flavor despite how delicious it looked; I changed my clothes and crawled into bed. Maybe I would wake up back home the next day.

I sat up with a start and looked around. Unfortunately, I had woken up in my tiny cabin still on board the train. The breakfast was the same fragrant yet bland coffee and an equally disappointing oatmeal. I took only a few bites to satiate my hunger and changed into my new clothes that again were laid out for me, and left. Today I was going to get to the bottom of this. I started at the back of the train, the first of the three sleeper cars. There was no door to any other cars at its rear. Nor was there any rear exit. I checked each room one by one, searching every crease and corner. They all seemed to be identical to my little room and did not appear to be hiding any secrets. It was already mid day by the time I searched my way back to my room. A small tray with a sandwich and a basket of chips sat just outside the door. I did not stop to eat, if i could find a way out I could have real food.

By the time I finished futilely searching the sleeper cars it was already dark outside. My heart was sinking. My new reality was setting in. I was trapped.

I spent the next few days scouring the lounge and dining cars, as I had the sleepers. Though, I had already guessed the outcome. I discovered that if I returned to my room just before dinner time, a very expensive evening wear would be hanging on the inside of my door for me, something to look appropriate in the dining car.

I do not know how many days I spent. There was no distinction from one day to the next; like the hills outside the window, all the same, forever passing me by. I had no agency. My clothes were set out for me, my meals provided. I also had no joy. There was no one I could speak to, nothing I was able to do. The food had no flavor, and even the alcohol did not exhibit a lasting effect. I was simply existing, stuck on a track that was not of my own making.

Day in, and day out I continued. I tried not eating, perhaps if I was hungry enough the food would taste better. I tried not putting on any clothes, but I just felt uncomfortable and there was no one else to care.

Finally, I could take no more. I took one of the chairs in the lounge and hurled it with all my might at the window. I would escape this hell even if it risked my life. The chair hit the window and fell to the ground. My spirit fell with it. There was no escape, no hope, and no help. I slept curled up on the floor next to my failed escape attempt that night. The next morning I woke up back in my cabin. I could feel tears coming as I slowly sat up. But this morning something new was here. Next to the breakfast tray filled with something or another pretending to be food, was a notebook and a pencil.

I began writing this, knowing that no one would ever read it. It was something to do, something to let me decide. On the page, I could choose my words. On the page, I can choose the path. But the true magic of this simple pencil is not the ability to make others feel. It is the ability to transcribe my misery onto the page. To place it there and to keep it contained, lest it seek to do me harm.

I understand that in all likelihood, no one will ever read this. And if someone does, I cannot promise it will help them or make them feel. Even so, I will write. I will tell my story and make it real for me. I will chronicle this journey, showing the path to my day of freedom. And if that day should never come to me, I shall take up my pen and create it for myself, one word at a time. I will write.