Under Metropolitan Station - Easel Musings - Week 2 - Challenge

Eternally dark down here, drafty, too, steamy and dank, smells like dirty socks. The kind that "Old Geezer" wore daily without washing. Whispers come in the steam like mutterings of mad men. Movements, too, in the dark, I see them out of the corner of my eye, shapeless things shambling around the bend in the tunnel.

But up near the grating, it's better. Through that small hole I can see that other world. It's clean and sparkly there, with bright colors that hurt my eyes. No one mutters. They laugh or cry but no muttering. If I watch too long I get a tight feeling in my chest, like I'm out of the dark too long. I shrink away, sliding back into the dark.

I have my own place down here. It is as quiet as I can make it, away from any light. Far from the steam vents it stays drier, but it still smells. I guess I smell, too. I save every cardboard box I find. I have layers between me and the wall. I find clothes, once a ladies coat. I use them for a bedroll. I have to be careful to keep everything out of sight. There are others down here. I have heard them.

Late at night, I sneak out of my special door for food. Sometimes I find most of a sandwich, or half of an apple or a container of cold coffee. The best kind has no milk in it, no sour lumps to choke down. Once I found a bright red box with candies of all kinds. Sometimes I don't find anything. Those are bad days.

Soon, I'll be able to get food. It's getting darker. I watch two people walking under a red umbrella. I like the sound of that word. Um-brel-la. I say it softly. They are talking in nice low tones. It's been raining, the sidewalk is clean. I wonder what clean feels like.

As I watch the people walk past me, looking out from the vent, I get that tight feeling again. I don't want to slide back into the dark but the tight feeling is so big I think I'll explode. So I run. Run back through the dark to my secret door, the one with the big handle.

I can't believe I'm doing this. I'm not supposed to go out near people. I don't remember why. I can't stop. I grab the big handle, opening the door. The light comes in blinding me. I stumble out. I can't see. I fall down to my knees, waiting. For what?

Now I can see again. I see the people with the umbrella standing right in front of me. I reach out a hand to touch them. Then I remember. "Never leave this place. People will hurt you." Who told me that? I don't know.

I can't run. I can't hide. I rest there on my heels, with rain pouring down. Isn't it still raining?

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This story was written in response to the picture shown, which is Metropolitan Station, by Brent Heighton. If you like this story you might like some of my other writings. You can find them at http://aries18.gather.com/.

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