Death
Track
Here I
am, once again at the Amtrak Train Station trying hard to suppress my haunting memories.
This very station contains a significant personal part of my sheltered and very
private life; a life encompassing my once alcoholic father that lost his love
for life. The day was January 8, 2009. That was the day I unknowingly would never
say a word to my father again. I have never been able to share this painful
truth with anybody, have never been able to deal with the agony, have never
been able to deal with the guilt and grief of having an alcoholic, suicidal
dad.
In my
life, my father has horrified – has terrified – has destroyed me. (1.
MIMIC OF POE “In their consequences, these events have terrified – have
tortured – have destroyed me.”) Denial creeps into my skin – will this be the
day denial consumes my sanity and haunts me on the tracks? The shadow of my soul was too fragile to
be restored. (MIMIC OF POE The glee
of my heart was too strong to be restrained.)
The
presence of anxious bodies, stumble into the line as I hesitantly follow. Each
gut wrenching step makes me fight to keep myself from turning around and
running for the exit door. The closer I get to the train, the more apprehensive
I feel. Perspiration is cascading down
my back and my mind is frantically searching for the escape route. All these thoughts are rushing through me as
if a gun is placed to my head forcing me to relive, dare I say it, the gruesome
death. My mind becomes paralyzed with the fear of knowing the possibility of
another disaster could occur, at any lifeless tree we pass. Oh, I know all too
well how easy it is to throw oneself in front of a five thousand ton train not
caring about anybody who is left behind.
Suicide
itself is a hideous word, which conjures images of blood and mangled limbs. How
can you think so little of yourself as to not care if you live or die? Is there
any thought to those who are left behind? Is there any thought to the emotions
each person will carry with them the rest of their lives? Is there any thought
to the poor conductor and innocent passengers on the train who have to live
with the knowledge that they were involved in taking someone’s life? These thoughts are pounding in my scrambled brain
faster than the turbulent speed of the train. I know that I must get on, but
each hesitant step taken hurts even more. It feels as if my life is stuck on slow
motion rewind; repeating over and over again, nothing bad will happen today,
nothing bad will happened today, nothing bad will happened today . . .
Somehow
I found the mammoth strength to manage to get on. Slowly, I enter the last
passenger car and shakily walk to my torn seat looking paranoid. When I sit
down, my shredded nerves finally calm to the point where I can breathe once
again. From there on, I know half the battle was over; all I have to do now was
get to my destination – easy enough right?
After an exhausting amount of time, we finally
managed to pull away from the station. The first roll of the wheels sent
shivers through my spine as I am unaware that we are leaving. It seemed like it
only took seconds before we reached full speed, when suddenly I feel the train
tip and the brakes prompted it to stop. That’s when I hear the echoing intercom,
I thought for sure it had happened, the
deathly sound of a man’s voice goes over the intercom saying, “I’m sorry
everyone but we are going to have to stop.” By now I am uncontrollably sobbing,
I can’t believe my ears, “We are stopping due to mechanical issues with the
train”. I couldn’t believe it. I felt as if I had just dodged a spear.
After a
painfully gruesome hour of maintenance work on the train track, the train was
cleared to continue down the line and all the passengers, cheered revealing
their impatience. As the train starts back up again, I notice how achy and exhausted
I was from the delay. The sounds of the passengers and the soft beating of the
tracks expose me to my primary state of nerves, so I decided to close my eyes
to free my mind into good dreams and not to think about the endless horrific possibilities.
My
dreams put me at the birth of my father’s suicide; they paralyze, and seduce
every follicle in my skin. Under haunting dreams, these images of agony and
disturbance rippled into the depths of remorse. (MIMIC OF POE: by slow
degrees these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the bitterness of
hatred.) The images pierce my heart. I suddenly wake up from reliving my worst nightmare
by a distinguishable bump; eerily I have the feeling I was not done with the
nightmare. Suddenly I heard over the intercom, “Emergency, Emergency, Emergency!
We have hit a pedestrian. Brake! Brake! Brake! All passengers brace yourself immediately!”.
Time stands still; we finally come to a dead halt. All at once my emotions from
the past blindsides me; I cry until no more tears could fall. As I look around,
all I see are passengers looking out the window trying to get a glimpse of the
accident that occurred seconds ago.
After
twenty-two excruciating minutes pass by, I notice the noise of sirens
increasingly getting louder and so does the commotion from all different
directions. When I look out my window, I see multiple police cars, ambulances,
and fire trucks. The conductors blocked all doors. Everyone erupted with
speculation as to Who? What? Why? We were in the middle of nowhere and no one
was allowed to leave for obvious reasons, but also so we couldn’t contaminate
the scene. I managed to force myself to look out the dirty window and as I did,
I saw investigators escorted by police men walking by with all their equipment.
We all
sat in our uncomfortable seats waiting impatiently and nervously to find out
the news of what had occurred. By now the shock of death has seeped into
everyone’s lives and the train is dead silent. We hear over the intercom that
Amtrak will offer us a compensation for every hour we were delayed; we will
receive ten dollars an hour along with free snacks. Although no one seemed to
have interest in the free things Amtrak was offering, all anyone cared about
was the innocent person that just died minutes ago and the victim’s family.
All of
a sudden, I hear commotion going on outside my window. When I look outside the
window once again, I notice the investigators leaving the scene. Flashbacks overwhelmed
me when I noticed an investigator carrying in his hand a clear bag containing a
ring. Images flood back to me of my father’s death. The investigator found my
father’s wedding ring at the scene of his death on this same train track. My mother had divorced him because he drank
too much, but he always talked about getting sober and winning her back. The
ring was all that was left of him, so I wear his ring every day, believing that
maybe in heaven he can be the father he could never be here on earth. Somehow, if
I only have faith in him, he now will be capable of watching over me.
My
wishful thoughts suddenly were interrupted, when I hear the man’s sorrowful voice
over the intercom, “We have just accidentally KILLED a man who was thought to
be suicidal.” After I hear these words I
tell myself over and over, “This is just a dream. I am not awake, not awake!” The
train slowly starts moving now to our destination and when we arrive, I know it
was not a dream.
