The Blue Line
Black Converse and murky puddles are probably not the best combination. She realises this as her feet pound the wet pavement in the dark night, illuminated by flickering street lights. But this realisation is far more mundane than what she is actually going through and she knows this and so the wet sneakers do not bother her.
It’s then that she pauses. Takes in her surroundings. Her options. Her best escape routes. Her heart threatens to burst out of her chest, the air in her lungs protesting, pushing, demanding to get out. She clutches a photo in her hand. A small square piece of paper, the edge torn off. The bus would take too long. Far too long and she didn’t have time.
Her eyes dart nervously across the street; she sees a homeless man’s cracked lips move into a smile, exposing nicotine stained teeth in the flash of a passing car’s headlight and reflexively, her fingers grip the jacket around herself tighter than needed. Taxi? No. She daren’t be alone.
Throwing a shifty glance behind her shoulder, she starts to walk again; she can’t afford to slow down. Not now. It is too late now. Now she must keep going.
When it catches her eye, she wonders why she didn’t think of it before. Of course, her fastest route. The Blue Line, used by a thousand Boston commuters every second of the day. There was safety in numbers. Yes. She would get on the train where no one would know her. She breaks into a jog, desperation clinging to her like the thick, saturated Boston air.
A one way train trip costs $2.75. Shaking fingers delve into her sagging jacket pockets where a meagre five dollar note lies. The words on the self-serve ticket machine blur and she blinks to bring them into focus. As the machine swallows up the money, she can hear the impatient shuffle of the feet of the person behind her. The second the machine spews out her paper ticket along with the change, her fingers scrabble to grasp it quickly and she makes her way to the platform.
She tries to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, pulling the hood of her heather grey jacket over her mousy brown hair. A balding man, an obese lady and a sleep deprived mother rocking a baby in her arms are the only passengers waiting along with her. She ducks her head when the balding man makes eye contact.
Two minutes later she’s on the Blue Line. It’s not rush hour and so she has a seat where she sits, with her back ram rod straight and hands clasped tightly in her lap, slowly turning white. It’s then that the salty tear dribbles down her chin and onto her faded jeans and she watches with a vague fascination as the material slowly darkens. Two drops. Three. When the fourth slides along the length of her nose, she sees a handful of tissues held before her. She jerks back causing the lady in front to look up from her mobile, then back down, disinterest and mild annoyance marring her features.
The girl’s eyes trace the hand, from a full sleeved arm to a firm jawline clad with a stubble to patient brown eyes, or maybe a dark green, she cannot tell. The boy, who appears to be no older than her, maybe twenty, offers the tissue in silence, not affected in the least by her caught-in-the-head-lights reaction. Reluctantly, the girl accepts the proffered tissues and wipes her eyes. They burn from the polluted air and protest when the coarse material of the tissue brushes against them.
“Thank you.” The words are sighed weakly rather than said. He reaches into his bag then, a bright neon green bag, and pulls out a chocolate bar, unwraps it halfway down and hands it to her. His actions are coated with silent magnanimity and her shoulders relax slightly.
“It helps.” He gestures to the bar. “You can have it.”
The girl stares at him, then looks away then back at him, as if stuck in some inner battle. Finally she takes the chocolate and bites into it. She closes her eyes as the richness melts on her palate, stimulating dopamine to be released in her brain. He is right. It helps. She licks the chocolate from her lips, then gives him a cautious half hearted smile. It is a sad one.
“It’ll be okay.”
And, it is because his eyes do not hold any pity when he says this, is what makes her speak.
“My mother.” She starts, her throat thick with tears. “She was killed. I saw...” She trails off and looks out at the passing scenery, the forgotten chocolate bar clasped in her fingers. Shutting her eyes briefly she says, “A bad person killed her. I saw it happen. I watched. But I was scared. I can’t carry it inside me anymore.”
The tears now run freely down her cheeks, her chin. “A bad, bad person.”
She rubs her jacket sleeve over her face, almost viciously so that it flames a lobster pink. “No choice. So I ran. I ran and I came here. No choice.” Her words spill over each other, tumbling and interlocking like seaweed on the shore. She repeats,
“No choice, no choice.” And starts moving to and fro in the seat.
The boy is silent, almost like an inanimate object. Yet, he places an awkward hesitant hand on her knee, an attempt of a stranger to comfort another stranger.
“Why did the bad person do it, do you know?” He asks in a low sombre tone.
A pause. Two pauses. Then, “Money. Five thousand dollars. I’m alone now. All alone. I watched. I saw.”
She plays with the photo in her hand, her fingers outlining the torn
edge. “The only thing I have of my mother now, is a picture. That’s it.”
The Blue Line grinds slowly to a stop. His hand falls away. The warmth goes. She stands up abruptly and hands back the chocolate bar to the boy. “Wait.” The boy’s eyes are pleading. Scared. Not of her but for her. “Is the bad person after you? Do you need help? Call the cops. I can call the cops. I can help.”
“Brown or dark green? I could never figure them out.” The girl smiles. “You have nice eyes.”
Then she steps off the train.
She moves briskly through the streets.
She reaches the rendezvous point.
He is waiting there.
“It’s done.”
She gives him the proof. A photo of an unknown woman, her body a stabbed bloody mess. The edge is torn off. The man nods. He hands her the money in cash, wrapped up tightly in white paper.
Five thousand dollars.
She takes it and she leaves.
“I’m a bad, bad person.” She repeats.