need to know [kareem + celeste train]
Feb 15, 2022 0:42:45 GMT -5
Post by Cait on Feb 15, 2022 0:42:45 GMT -5
celeste brere.
The train carriage is a locked room from my past, reflected as an alternate life. The walls here are stripped bare, but I can see tattered pieces of paper stuck haphazardly to them, some sad childhood attempt at interior design. There is a single corner bench and table placed in the centre of the room, but I can see the single bed in the corner, the bedsheets that smell like lavender inviting me in to escape the world.
I thought choosing the barest room in the train would make me feel better. But it just makes the pain of the life I’ve left behind all the worse.
I feel nine again –
like I’ve just been caught red-handed trying to sneak out of the house to see my friends instead of helping with the weekend chores.
Rebellions never go unnoticed.
I sit, waiting for my punishment, desperately hoping in a change of heart. Some type of processing mistake, a knock at the door come to take me back home.
And there is a knock, but it doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t sound like freedom. The hand is too heavy, the sound too hollow – it sounds like finality. The sentence has already been decided; the jury has been adjourned.
There’s more people in this train carriage than most – ghosts from a successful past shuffling through the rooms, tired of their victory duties after so many years. Their presence should ease my anxiety and give me some sense of hope that this won’t be the last train ride of my life. That they know how to survive, and that I would be so lucky as to as well. Instead, it makes me want to shrink away – from their expectation, from their pity. From the mess of it all.
I chose this fate.
“Go away.” I want to be strong and brave, but my voice is whinging and desperate, and I cringe at the sound of myself.
It doesn’t deter the newcomer, and the dread in my stomach increases tenfold. I see my mum with her narrowed eyes; I see the judge with a gavel coming down on me.
The time passes, the world continues to turn on its axis, and I’ll forever be a little girl trapped, no clue on how to be more than a daughter.