WAITING FOR A TRAIN

Note to the reader: The "Art" used in this piece were created by prompts by me, your humble writer of this "Work" which were inspired by actual events in my life; a passing of my wife, my life, my heart and soul on December 19th, 2012.

Unlike or like our hero (or anti-hero?)I did let people into my life but well, those poor bastards who ended up loving me, this broken soul, the author, sitting here at 11 pm, writing this, piece.

Enjoy!

My "Art" can be found at https://creator.nightcafe.studio/u/Tinkerertink69.

I know some people don't see AI creation as art but I guess the computer master needs the prompt from the human mind so in a way, it is art, maybe not created by the hand of the human but still, it is there.

- CHAPTER ONE -

There stood a man, waiting for a train, scars on his face from his epic battles, his near misses with the taking of his own life, his heart ripped out from that night, thrown to the ground, to lie there, trying to stay alive, but why, was survival that important, was it that great?

His soul remained, trapped inside a bag of meat they called the living but was this really living, he though to himself, the music played from somewhere, some place.

Was this a memory? In his brain?

"No summer time rain, just another ordinary day..."

He sat there, some bar, waiting for her, always waiting for her.

She would be late for her own funeral, she always laughed.

He missed that laughter.

It was her best feature, and her eyes, her soul piercing eyes, that could make a rainy day the best day.

He sighed.

There inside lies the madness, a place mark inside a huge database.

A world he did not create, a vision of Hell inside his mind, to come out, every so often in dreams, in pleas, to try and finish him, a stay in the hospital, three days, to try to "Figure things out" the doctors would say to him as he laid there, his shirt covered in his own blood, his wrists bandaged up, he tried to live, and he tried to die, failing in both without an anchor there.

He tried to find his way, to figure it all out but failed without a map to this thing called life.

He felt worthless, drowning, in a sea of demented froth, a tidal wave of emotions and memories, drowning there in that sea, how could he breathe?

The 5:45 train was late again.

He picked at a scab there on his hand.

Was it always there, he wondered, picking, lost in his own thoughts.

There, among the little people, the world began and ended.

This was Cleveland as seen by a madman, a person of mental instability, a world leader who was a nobody sitting, waiting for a train.

"Late again?" she said.

He didn't hear her, a random person, trying to make conversation to avoid her own thoughts.

She sighed and sat down, setting her baggage down, groceries for the day, her dinner, a Lean Cuisine pasta, chicken.

Was this man alive?

No?

Who knew, nobody did, he was just a nobody, a man sitting waiting for a train, there, alone, by his own choosing, the world buzzing around him, like bees.

There he was, a center of a hive, a drone, a worker, but not working, a mindless slave to society but he was a zombie, brought there by depression, lost, a feeling of hopelessness, even surrounded by people, he was alone.

He burned bridges so nobody would be able to follow him to his "Bat Cave", his "Fortress of Solitude".

This was his way, to keep the world at bay, so nobody could penetrate, to become part of his world, to then leave him alone when time had passed.

He tried a few times, to let people in, there was a girl, a woman, life, she tried.

But even her hope could not break that wall he had built around himself, he would not dare let anyone else in.

"Too hard!" he whispered to himself that first time he tried to kill himself.

She left him that very next day.

Too hard.

Life was too hard.

Love was too hard.

So now, there he sat, waiting for a train, alone.

She, this person sitting next to him, was her own world.

There, waiting, life was dealing her a bad hand, failed marriage, a life created inside only to be sent back to Heaven's grace.

She was pretty but not enough that the world noticed her.

Her blue eyes dulled by a hard life, a waitress at a greasy spoon, tips weren't bad, she tried to be positive. She smiled at the man next to her.

He was lost in his own world, it seemed. She watched the rain hit the tracks.

She was there, close, he could smell her perfume, she was alive, she was beautiful but he did not see her through his pain, his tears, blinded by memories, ghosts.

She was alive.

So close, so near, he could hear her.

He could see her.

But she was thousands of miles away, mere feet away, yet so far away.

There they sat waiting for a train...