Falling

I sometimes wonder whether I truly exist. Scientists tell us that we are ruining the Earth, slowly eradicating species from the planet like a checklist, one by one. Humans aren’t worth this paradise we call Earth. We’re merely pawns in an ever-expanding game of chess, and we’re losing. Honestly, sometimes I wonder why I even bother.

My father used to say, “We shall always stay true to our form. We don't look at ourselves as individuals, but rather as a collective whole that are just sheep being flocked together by an invisible sheppard.”  Yet narrating my own story seems pointless. Especially if I'm just part of the flock. But sometimes it's necessary. Or perhaps the fates, or even the Gods, are playing a game with me, just like Calypso in Greek mythology, being punished for who I am.  

I stood at the edge of the concourse and watched as the train came to a halt. There were teenagers with their skateboards headbutting each other – a challenge for dominance. Old ladies huddled together against the cold, their shopping bags fluttered in the wind. The air was crisp this evening. The train doors opened and I walked through the threshold. An automated woman's voice crackled over the speaker. I ignored it. Three of the old ladies followed me; their husbands yet to be seen. The doors closed and the train lurched forward.

The train carriage was silent. People's mouths were moving, yet no sound could be heard. The three old ladies sat down and pulled out some knitting; their scissors cutting twine. I shook my head. Little puffs of dandruff fell to the floor as if it was snow. I searched through my satchel and sat down opposite. I pulled out my notebook and starred down at the pages. They were blank. I was sure I had written down something before. I closed my eyes and then opened them, as if the words would magically appear. Thunder broke the silence – rattling the carriage as the train passed through a tunnel.

I uncapped my pen and began to write.

Do you remember the time when you thought you were falling? That indescribable notion of dread. Bouncing off the bed springs. Sweating like a sauna. Anxiety setting in. That's what it's like...

One of the teenagers knocked my leg with his skateboard, sending my pen flying across the page. I sighed and closed my notebook reluctantly. Why couldn't they just leave me in peace? I stood up and tried to yell at the teenager – but no words would come out. I closed my eyes and swallowed back the bile that had filled my mouth. I breathed. If only everything could be a sweet sorrow. I sat back down and opened my eyes. The three old ladies stared at me. Their hands sweeping through the delicate motions that were required when knitting. Yet all they seemed to be doing is cutting twine.

The train began to slow its speed as it approached a new platform. The automated woman's voice crackled back to life. There was too much static to understand what she had said. The train came to a rest and passengers disembarked. Nobody gets on. The three old ladies stayed on the train. Still watching me. I took out my notepad again and began to write.

The literary versions of ourselves are sometimes better than our real ones. While the literary versions of ourselves can feel more realistic, it is the physical versions that are true to who we are and that the literary versions of ourselves are just words on a piece of paper. It's what we want to be, but forever out of reach.

I put down the pen and rubbed my temple. A drop of blood spattered onto the page. I smeared the blood and it changed shape to a distant blur. I scrunched up my face. I pulled out a tissue from my satchel and wiped my face. Just a nosebleed. I looked around the carriage. A teenage couple sat beside me, rolling their pram back and forth. It was probably newer than the baby and had thin plastic handles yet it still managed to be frothed with dust. The girl was silently arguing with her boyfriend, her impatience lay bare on her face. The baby's mouth was sucking air as it tried to get their attention.

The carriage rocked, scissors clipped, and my attention faulted. The couple had vanished. The pram now empty of the small child that had once lain there. The pram glided past me and tumbled silently down the stairs. Thunder boomed in the back ground once again. The old ladies smiled, still cutting their twine.

The night had darkened outside and my reflection in the window was clearer, a pressed black suit over a blue dress shirt, a paleness to my skin sitting on a mustard coloured seat, painted against a backdrop of ever moving mosaics of brick walls. The train slowed down and mosaics became water coloured cityscapes as the rain dripped through the cracks in the tunnel. I rose and walked to the door. They opened and I walked through. Before I can put my feet on the platform a force yanked my leg backward, as if an invisible chain was shackled to my ankle. I fall forward, the train doors closed and wrapped around my left leg.

“Hey! Stop!” I yelled, but nobody seems to be able to hear me. The silence is still in place. I looked to the three old ladies and they smiled back at me. The middle one was holding a piece of taught twine in her hands. The one on the left had her scissors at the ready. The train lurched forward.

“No! Stop!”

The train continued.

The concourse's gravel ripped through my suit, scraping off the top layer of skin. Tears started rolling down my cheeks. The tunnel wall came into view. It's mouth swallowing the train; its menacing face grimacing.

“Please!” I begged.

The scissors cut through the twine.


I opened my eyes and breathed in the acrid stench of the train station. I watched as the train pulled into the station. Some people call me cynical, but I'm just more realistic. As my life goes by, I sometimes wonder whether I truly exist. Scientists tell us that we are ruining the Earth, slowly eradicating species from the planet like a checklist, one by one. Humans aren’t worth this paradise we call Earth.