To be perfectly honest, my day began like any other. Each morning, I take the train from 32nd Street to 112th street, because I work in a barber shop up towards the north side. My life is a purely ordinary one, and I am a purely ordinary man. I grew up in Greenwich, England. I live alone. I am twenty-four years old.
But when I got on the train that morning, my ordinary day became eerily different from usual. I typically sit myself in an empty compartment, and I try to be alone, talking to no one. I wouldn’t call myself anti-social, it’s just normally the most efficient way to go about my day. I don’t truthfully NEED to talk to anyone while on the train to work each morning.
Today as I slid the door to my compartment open, a young woman sat where I usually do. Her head was tipped against the foggy window, and her fingers propped open a novel on her lap. She glanced briefly up at me when I came in, but generally paid no mind to my entrance. I sat opposite her. I thought about finding a new compartment, but in my mind I remember thinking that this woman was quite pretty. She had fair blonde hair, short but curly at the ends, and pale hazelnut shaded eyes. I didn’t want to leave the compartment. I told myself I could deal with being social in the morning, but only just for one day.
“Hello,” I started. Her eyes didn’t look to me, only still swirled the page feverishly. I continued. “My name is Bentley,” She looked up at me, and closed her book. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were rimmed with dark colors. I felt as if I’d made her upset somehow. She seemed curiously very sad.
“My name is Alice,” She said. I could tell now, from her tone. She was unhappy.
“Alice?” I repeated. “That’s very pretty. I like that name.” I waited. She stared silently out the window. “Tell me about yourself, Alice. What do you do?” I asked politely, trying desperately to engage her in a conversation, begging for some way to connect with this beautiful woman. She smiled, but said nothing.
“This is a long shot, Alice, a very long shot indeed, but would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” I stared at her, awaiting an answer of any kind, simply longing for her to say anything. Her eyes watched the English hills slip beside us, whilst raindrops fell across the pane, casting shadows across her prominent cheekbones. She still said nothing.
I reached for her hand. This was wrong, very wrong, and I was going much too far, but I simply couldn’t control what I was doing anymore. She was so beautiful. I took her hand, and choked on my words upon feeling how cold she was. Cold, cold like ice. Her eyes drew themselves from the window and tore into mine. She was so cold. Lifeless.
Round eyes born into empty sockets broke my heart today. A sad, dead thing, which could not love in spite of itself. It couldn’t even try. But I could love. And today, I fell in love with a dead woman.
Something in her pale, silent aura made me feel a certain way. This was a different kind of day, a different day indeed. I knew, I knew even before I felt her hand melt away. The train stopped. The cold still lingered on my fingertips, and I rubbed them until they were properly feeling again. I left my compartment, and I left the train. The rest of my day, I thought a lot about Alice, and about what I’d seen and felt. I told no one about it, but it stuck in my mind until that evening. Each and every evening, I ride the train home. But this day, I the train was a different place. I felt cold now, and I knew I had to get on the train. I couldn’t ever go back from here.
I vividly remembered her. Everything I saw in her. Everything she used to be. Before she… she… stopped living. The worn novel, the old fashioned curls, the gray day dress. All she was while she lived, enunciated while dead. This is how the dead will be seen. They aren’t ghosts or demons, or creatures who will hurt you. They’re people.
I didn’t want to live here. I didn’t want to be alive. I wanted to find Alice. I did what I could. When I got on the train that night, everything was different. While I watched the English hills slip back into view, I wrote a letter to Alice. I told her I loved her, and I always would, I told her I’d ride the train every day, and write her every night, and that I would always wait for her. “Forever and ever,” I wrote. “Love, Bentley.”
That night, sleep came easily. The rest of my life would be pure and safe now. I knew I could always rely on Alice.