The Train

I grabbed my seat as the train shook around me. I’ve always hated this part of my day, but there’s no other choice. You either take the train, or you don’t go at all. Funny how I used to be excited about this. I’ll always remember the first time I saw the train. We were dropping off my big brother for his first day. He seemed excited too. How could he not? Up till then, he’d never even seen a vehicle much less ridden in one. It was supposed to be an honor. I always wanted to ask him how that first ride was.

“Did ya get to feel the wind?” I’d ask. We’d heard that you could feel the wind on the trains. Not the lousy push of air that sometimes blew through our tunnels, but true wind, like the kind they tell about in old stories. The kind of wind that could chill your bones and mess up your hair. My da used to tell us stories, my brother on one knee, me on the other.

“It’s unlike anything you’ll ever experience,” he’d say, “it tickles the skin on your face and turns your skin to goose flesh, one day we’ll feel it together!”

As I sit here now, those memories feel so far away. Now I sit on bench C43, second spot, between two other girls. The benches sit across from each other and run parallel to the train. Fluorescent lights shine dimly, illuminating what looks like a long shifting hall down either direction. The girl next to me reeks and is in need of a shower. You’d think I’d get used to it, but the wind occasionally blows past my face, resetting my sense of smell. It’s an awful thing, but I’ve got to do it. It’s the only way to the education center, and I’ll be a drunken tunnel rat if I give up on this dream. It’s what my da wants. It’s what my brother – It’s what he would have wanted.

I used to feel sorrow for my brother. Train crashes were rare. What were the odds that his blew apart on his first day? I couldn’t understand it. He’d been such a good boy, the best brother a girl could ask for. Other girls had brothers who picked on them. Not mine. He didn’t have a bothering bone in him. He was sweet. He used to give da the last bit of his rations whenever da had a difficult day. Da didn’t know, of course, my brother would scoop a few spoonfuls to my da’s plate while he wasn’t looking. Now I only feel happiness for my brother. He didn’t deserve this life. He didn’t even deserve what living would have gained for him.

I hear a sniffle and notice a young boy two benches up from mine. My heart breaks as I watch him. A week ago he was all smiles and joy. That was the first sight that made me smile in a long time. Now I’m forced to think of my brother as this thirteen-year-old child does his best to act brave. I want to console him, to tell him that it gets better. I want to tell him that he’ll get stronger and he’ll get used to it, but I can’t. The only thing worse than reality would be giving him false hope.