Figments

He blinks awake, cold and aching, upon a quiet late night train. Just like last time, and the time before that, and all the other times he can’t remember. He sits up slowly, and figure in his peripheral does the same.

“Who are you?” Asks the man as the cold air fogs his breath.

“No one,” replies the ghost, across the aisle to his left.

The train car shivers and rattles as hushed voices whisper nervously. He can hear them breathe, the sound of fabric shifting stark against the quiet. Somewhere in front, a woman coughs. Behind, a distant child cries. They are all around.

The car is empty aside from him.

“Where are we going?” He asks the ghost, watching the dim lights flicker and fade.

“Nowhere,” the ghost replies, leaning his head against the window.

The man mirrors him. A shadow.

The world outside is streaks of light and dark, the barest hints to show that something else exists, if only the train would slow down enough to see. Look here, says the shattered light. A place to stop and rest. A destination. The train barrels on, faster than before.

“What?” someone whispers.

“I missed my stop,” breathes another.

“What's happened?” asks a third, but no one answers.

The man closes his eyes and hums a tune he won’t remember, guarding himself against the people who don’t exist. Whether family, neighbor, stranger or friend, it doesn’t matter much. The car is empty, his head too full. Something must go.

He blinks his eyes open again, reaching up to push the hair from his face. From the corner of his eye, the ghost follows suit.

“Where am I from?” He asks the ghost. The lights outside disappear, plunging the car into shadow. Far away, the train starts to scream.

“A dream,” replies the ghost, picking idly at the hem of his coat.

The man twists the hem of his coat in his fingers, turning the answer over in his mind.

“Mommy, I’m cold,” a young boy whines.

“We’re nearly there,” a woman responds.

Please stop, begs his mind, overwhelmed.

The lights flicker, and then they die. They don’t come on again. A loud crash sounds up ahead, faint and far away. Someone screams. He tunes it out.

“Did I know you?” Asks the man. There are footsteps thundering in the aisle.

“Not really,” replies the ghost.

“Did I hate you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did I love you?”

“You tried.”

The train car lurches. Luggage rains down from above, but none of it is his, and no one else is there to claim it.

“We’re going too fast!” Someone shouts.

“Tell them to stop!” Screams another.

The man leans back, staring at the ceiling, and tries not to cry.

“What’s my name?” He asks, the words raking claws down his throat.

“I don’t remember,” says the ghost, his voice a low and somber note.

“What am I?” He tries again, desperate.

“Figments,” sighs the ghost, and somehow, this is worse.

Around them, the metal twists and tears like paper. Light, orange and bright, blasts apart the stubborn dark. The man closes his eyes, and coaxes the darkness back again.

“Am I dead?” Asks the man.

“Maybe,” replies the ghost.

"Am I you?"

No one answers.

The platform is dark and empty, aside for the train pulling gently to a stop. He stands at the edge, hands in his pockets, waiting. The chilled air grips his lungs with each inhale.

Against a pillar just feet away, flowers litter the ground. Roses, red and yellow and white, framed by forget-me-nots, their petals withering and faded. The flames of small candles sway, their glow tracing the edges of a gilded picture frame. The man looks over and stares down at himself.

The car doors open with a sharp hiss. People push past him, shoving at his shoulders, brushing against his arms. Perfume and cologne and the flowery scents of shampoo mix in the air, with their owners nowhere to be seen.

“Last call!” shouts a conductor who doesn’t exist.

Shall I board, or run and hide?

“Again?” Asks the ghost, his own reflection in the glass.

“Again,” says the man. He steps inside.