Endurance

The frigid December air bites through the windows of the nearly empty Blue Line train, where Michael sits, clutching an almost-empty bottle of cheap whiskey. His rumpled coat hangs loosely around him, a sad remnant of the man he used to be, as the rhythmic clatter of the train echoes the turmoil within. Flickering fluorescent lights bathe his unshaven face in harsh shadows, each bounce of the train reminding him of the impact of his failures—of a wedding that never was, a family that feels more like strangers, and the job that slipped through his fingers.

As the train rattles forward, Michael’s bloodshot eyes trace the blurred landscape outside—the distant glow of city lights blending into the oppressive darkness of the night. Each jolt reminds him of the bitterness settling in his chest, the weight of regrets stacking higher with every passing second. He can’t help but let the whiskey bottle hover near his lips, drowning out the nagging thoughts, if only for a moment.

When the doors slide open at the next stop, three young men step aboard, dressed in all black—hoodies, beanies, masks, their dreadlocks peeking out like coiled snakes. They move as a tight unit, eyes scanning the cabin until they lock onto Michael. The atmosphere shifts, heavy with menace, as they advance. The tall one looms over Michael like a storm cloud, while the other two flanking him—short and wiry like a scarecrow, the other heavyset with broad shoulders—exude a primal energy that sends a jolt of instinctual fear coursing through his veins.

“Look at this drunk loser,” the tall one sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “Think he’s some kind of big shot with that cheap liquor?”

Laughter ripples through their group, a sound that contrasts sharply with the soft hum of the train. Michael feels a flush of anger rising within him, an urge to retaliate, to defend himself from their mockery. But each insult feels like a lash against his already battered psyche, reinforcing the hopelessness that clings to him like a shadow.

“Hey, white boy, I’m talking to you!” The scarecrow shouts, stepping closer, a predatory glint in his eyes. The whiskey bottle trembles in Michael's grip as he gathers his thoughts, fighting to maintain a semblance of control. His heart races with adrenaline as he recognizes the weight of the situation—this is more than just taunting; they mean to challenge him, to push him.

As the train screeches into his stop, a sudden surge of adrenaline compels him to his feet. He hurries to the doors, breaking into the frigid night as the chill wraps around him, sharp and biting. But the thugs follow close behind, their laughter mingling with the wind. Just as he steps onto the platform, a fist collides with the back of his head, pain exploding in stars of light. The cheap whiskey bottle shatters at his feet, liquid soaking into the cracked concrete, mingling with the shards of glass.

Michael stands there for a beat, bloodshot eyes unflinching, surveying the debris at his feet. The adrenaline surges, pulling him upright as the tall thug leans in, lips curled in a sneer. “You really think you can just walk away? Not today.”

But instead of cowering, something ignites within him—years of hurt, the echoes of betrayal from Abby, his mother, and every friend who left him stranded. Rage floods his veins, sharp and clear. As the other thug lunges at him, Michael swiftly pulls the gun from his coat, raising it with a steadiness that surprises even him.

The world stills for a brief moment as the thugs freeze, their bravado flickering like the dying light in the train windows. “Get back!” Michael shouts, his voice surprisingly strong, trembling but resolute. The fear that gripped him moments ago evaporates, replaced with a fierce clarity. The thugs take a collective step back, eyes wide with uncertainty.

With a final glare, Michael watches them retreat, a semblance of control settling in amidst the chaos. He tucks the gun back into his coat and steps away from the scene, his heart hammering but somehow lighter. The night stretches before him, the city alive with its usual indifference, but he walks with a newfound defiance—no longer merely existing but fighting to reclaim a sliver of the life he almost lost.

Moments later...

The frigid air bites harder as Michael exits the train, the world around him sharpening into focus, every detail amplified by the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He moves through the city streets, the chill sinking into his bones, a relentless reminder of his failures—the wedding that never happened, the betrayal by the very people he trusted most. Each step toward the Van Buren parking garage echoes like a countdown, and as he approaches the concrete stairs, the disarray of his life comes crashing down with each hollow thud of his sneakers against the pavement.

Every footfall feels heavy with the weight of memories: his father’s disappointed expression when he confided in him about Abby, the warmth of his mother’s smile now overshadowed by the revelation of her affair. The thought sends a fresh stab of anger coursing through him, hot and unwelcome. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, fingers brushing against the cool metal of his gun, still a reminder of the power he wielded just moments ago.

Climbing the concrete stairs, he relishes the echo of each step reverberating around him like an unexpected applause—an acknowledgment of his survival in a world that often feels so cruel. Michael reaches the rooftop level, the heavy door creaking open against the stillness outside. A gust of wind greets him, harsh and biting, whipping through his hair and chilling the sweat clinging to his brow.

As he steps onto the rooftop, the skyline of Chicago stretches out before him, blurred by the low clouds that hang like ghosts over the city. He approaches the edge, staring down at the deserted street below, a world that feels both familiar and alien. Memories flood his mind—days spent chasing after dreams, promises exchanged under the warm sun, laughter shared over beers with friends that now feel like a distant echo.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, a flicker of hope sparking inside him. He pulls it out, his heart racing at the thought of a message from someone—maybe Jamie, maybe Doug. But the screen remains dark, lifeless and empty, void of any connection. Not even a missed call, nothing to pull him back from the edge of despair. Rage builds within him, tightening like a noose.

“Why, God?!” Michael shouts, his voice cutting through the stillness, reverberating against the city around him. “Why does it always come to this? Why couldn’t you save me from all this shit?” Each curse escapes his lips like a prayer gone wrong, frustration pouring out as he glares into the endless night.

He steps closer to the edge, the hard concrete below calling to him. “You took everything from me.” He braces himself, closing his eyes against the biting wind that threatens to knock him off balance.

Just as he prepares to leap, a sudden sound cuts through the noise—the shrill ring of his phone pierces the silence, shocking him back to reality. The unexpected vibration disrupts his concentration, making him stumble.

Then he falls... THUD!

The phone continues to vibrate against the pavement. Michael’s eyes flicker, and he realizes he’s still on the top of the parking garage, sprawled on the pavement. He is alive! The vibrating continues as Michael looks over to his right, the glow coming from the screen. He gingerly reaches over to his phone, and he grips it and picks it up.

Jamie’s name and number are visible. He closes his eyes and lowers his head... sighing with relief before answering the call.