I Am Not Myself

A foot nudges me awake. My head bobs from where it rests over my chest as I peel my eyes open to slits and stare at my shoes on the short, red carpet. The foot appears again, and toes at my leather boots. It is a twin to mine in size but wears black, shiny loafers. Slowly, I lift my head. A man sits across from me with a smirk on his face.

“Wakey-wakey,” he teases.

I stare at him blankly and blink at my surroundings. The red carpet stretches through a long, narrow hallway. A gray metal door sits on one end, bolted shut. A train, I recognize. The seats are silver metal with dark gray, square cushions. There are no curtains on the windows. Outside, it is dark. A young family naps together in the window seat in the far left corner. The red carpet hurts my eyes, so I close them again. “Wake up,” the man urges, “not too much longer left, I think.”

At this, I look up at him again and examine him closely. He is young. Maybe in his forties. Gray is just now seeping into his hairline. The train car wobbles, and the track curves underneath. A commotion at the back of the car has me turning my head as a woman closes a small hatch door from the opposite train car and walks through the aisle.

She smiles at me and chirps, “bathrooms are clean.”

She takes a seat next to the man, who is observing me carefully. I scowl at him, hoping to scare him off. Instead, he turns his head to whisper something softly in the woman’s ear, and I squirm in my seat. A black suitcase sits underneath the man’s chair, barely noticeable through his spread legs.

The money. It’s my responsibility. My heart jumps into my throat. How could I be so careless? The memories flicker in my mind. The open safe, the dead bank teller, the smell of my sweat through my nylon mask. And Laura. Sweet Laura. Waiting in the getaway car.

I whip my head around the train looking for Laura. We had ditched the car and hopped on the next train to Boston. She has a friend there. My fingers itch to count the money. That’s always my favorite part.

I inch forward on my seat and brace myself. The man who stole the suitcase leans forward, eyes sharply focused on me. “Hey,” he starts and reaches to grab my forearm. With a grunt, I thrust my head into his, sending him sprawling—the woman shrieks. I leap up and grab the suitcase, wincing at my legs, stiff from sleep, and break into a run towards the end of the train. The young family, woken from the noise, are staring at me with mouths hanging open. I make it to the door and burst into the next train car. This one is much busier. Bodies occupy every seat, and some stand in the aisle, grasping silver pipes for support. Their faces are a blur. Clutching my suitcase, I look desperately for Laura.

There is yelling behind me. I whirl around and come face to face with the man who now sports a bloody nose. I swing the suitcase at his legs, but he is too quick. He shoves my arms down to my sides, and I scream, my voice deep and hoarse. I need some water, I think. I use all my strength and thrash out of his grab, carefully keeping a tight grasp on the suitcase. This money is our biggest hit yet. I’m anticipating at least $13,000. Laura wants to buy a house. Settle down. Have kids.

I feel his grip loosen, and my unoccupied fist connects with what I think is someone’s chest. The suitcase smacks against a metal chair with a “ping.” I swirl my arms back and forth, faster and faster, “This is mine!” I yell, “This is mine and Laura’s, and we’re gonna buy a house!” I whirl and already feel the ache in my shoulders from the effort of the thrashing. Finally, I make it to the next door and yank it open.

A mirror hangs on the wall. A small toilet sits to the right. The face staring back at me is wrinkled. Impossibly old. A line of blood trickles from the top of the forehead. It blinks. I blink. I move to shut the door. It watches me.

I drop the suitcase on the ground and collapse on the toilet seat. Memories flicker. A dim apartment, stacks of money stretched across the coffee table, a swing set, a birthday cake, 13 candles. I grip the side of the wall. My legs are stiff, not from sleep but from age. The door flies open.

“Dad?” the man says. I gaze at him, hands shaking, mouth opening and closing. I am a fish out of water. The woman rushes to the man’s side, and I notice her clothes for the first time. Dark blue scrubs and sneakers. A nurse’s uniform. She carries a syringe. I’ve been bad. “When we get to the treatment center, we’ll have to talk about this,” she huffs. There is a sharp pain in my neck, and strong arms hoist me up.

I am not myself anymore.