I'm Standing Outside The Station

A Story by M. B.

A teenager's journey of thought through a train station. Please be aware that this piece explores themes that may be upsetting to some readers.

I’m standing outside the station. The divided circle. The blue, invisible against the red. Red lines. Red lines all over. Red lines going up, going down. Red ladders… on my arms, on my wrists. Every cut blends into a single red line.

Each red line. Was it a week ago… or a month, years. Yesterday, today… but not tomorrow. The red lines dripping down the walls. A crimson river, running down a porcelain valley, and down the drain. Scissors from the kitchen. Scissors from my pencil case. Scissors I stole from my sister’s room. Black, blue, yellow, green. I don’t remember the colour of the handles. I only remember the colour of my blood.

I’m standing outside the station. The sign stares back; numb. My arms are numb. One step. Two step. Forwards, not back, through the station. Faces and bodies move past me. Can they see it? Can they see what my mates can’t. What my parents choose to ignore. Can they see that I’m weak.

I’m at the barrier. In the station. I’m going to school. I’ll pull the ticket out in a second. It’s in my blazer pocket. Why am I looking in my left? It's always been in my right pocket. But I’m not wearing my blazer. I’m not wearing my uniform. And I’m not going to school. I’m not leaving this station.

The ticket slides out of my pocket, along with my hand. I push it through the mouth of the machine, letting the card go before I am pulled down and consumed with it. It jumps out the top and as I grab it the gate opens.

I’m in the station. At platform 2. A broken voice calls out to me. It guides me to the next train. I don’t care where it's been or where it’s supposed to go, because it's not going to reach its destination.

I walk down the steps and through the tunnel. It’s dark. I’m surrounded by fake yellow beams that make my head feel too heavy. Everything around me is fake and manufactured. The filthy concrete floor. The ugly grey walls. Even the people look fake. Like dolls. Their plastic faces all look the same. They walk past like clockwork; focussed and ignorant.

I’m walking up the steps to platform 5. A cold force of air brushes past my face. It whispers to me. It urges me to go back; turn around. But it's too quiet. Too late.

I’m at the station. The line in front of me is yellow. I look down at my arms, pulling back the sleeve of my hoodie. I run my fingers over the scars, leaving the tips of my fingers tinged with dried blood.

I’m at the station. I take a deep breath as one foot moves forward. The other follows. A tear rolls down.

I’m at the station. I take a deep breath and it burns my lungs. My feet shuffle forward; closer to the line. I wipe my wet cheek, only for another tear to take its place.

I’m at the station. I’m starting to tremble as my breath shallows against my will. Left foot. Right foot. Closer to the line. My arms ache. More tears fall.

I’m at the station. Someone is crushing my lungs. One step. Two step. The line is at my feet now. My face is puffy and damp.

I look to my right. The tracks begin to rumble. I can’t breath. Over the line. My face is numb. My wrists are burning.

On the edge. From the right, a yellow face, screams at me as it advances. It’s long white body squirming it’s way towards me. Now or never.

My parents always told me,

“When you are scared, count down from three and take a deep breath”

The train approaches.

“3”

The roaring makes my ears bleed. The blood is rushing. My scars, tearing into

skin.

“2”

One foot over the edge. People are starting to look; starting to stare. Don’t touch me.

“1”

Stay away! The cuts are open, dripping onto the gravel below. People are moving closer. Stay away.

... The air fills my lungs to the brim, like a bath; overflowing. My mind is a balloon. The rips and tears, covered in plasters; an attempt to keep the air inside. I jump off the grassy cliff, into the ocean below.

My bones are branches. My flesh; clay. My hair is moss and my eyes are small round stones. From my finger tips, droplets of red sap. I am no longer a part of this world made of rubber and plastic.

I am at the station. Everything around me is loud and noiseless. An empty train pulls up silently in front of me. As the last breath escapes my body, the red balloon pops and I know that it is time to leave. One step… two step. I board the train’s only carriage as it drifts away on its journey; over the edge.