Author's Note for Short Story

This was a creative project where we needed 3 mimic lines of an author.

Short Story

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.