bitterdiva

Waiting

They are dancing. A dance that occurs every moment of every day and never ends unless some catastrophe occurs to bring the well working machines to a halt. People step down, step in, step out, and step up. I stand here with my back against the wall; from what I could tell it had been a beautifully white polished tile. Now it was marbled with soot, fingerprints, stained blood, and several bullet holes. I watched the people dance all around me, paying no attention to something so insignificant that only certain grassroots organizations rallied for their cause.

The sounds of steps fade away into a mechanical rush and screeching of metal upon metal as the beast slows its momentum to a halt. The wind hits my face; the temperate urine-scented blast sending waves of nausea through my organs. My kind often falls low enough to open zippers and steady streams of piss in corners, tracks, and doorways that lead below the city. Humans are sick enough to submit themselves to near death entanglement with alcohol and decreased bladder control. Those bloody fools are the bane of this society. And although I stand with my back against the tile caring only for my personal agenda, the dancers slink away from the person in the tattered raincoat.

Occasionally they ask you for your story, feeling sorry for the poor pathetic human waiting for something better to dance its way out of the train and into their life. Some days I tell them truth and they become disgusted, prejudging a person based upon physical appearances. Other days I blur the boundaries of reality and fantasy so they walk away with a nugget so perplexing the warped story couldn’t be unraveled and they’re left in a zombie-like trance for the remainder of the day. I am just a person in a tattered raincoat waiting for my train, which never seems to arrive.

01:32 PM

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