End of the Line — Myah Litteljohn
I like to ride the subway on Mondays. The chaos of people on their way makes me feel like I, too, have someplace to be. Normally I take the #11 bus all the way to Bloor-Yonge subway station. From there I can go wherever I feel drawn to most, any which way the compass points.
Today, despite it being rush hour, I’ve got the whole back row of the bus to myself. This isn’t unusual really–most people try to stay as far away from me as possible, even if it means clinging to those garish yellow straps. They’re right to fear me; sometimes I even fear myself.
But then a teenager boards the bus and, pushing through the throng of commuters, plunks herself and her overstuffed knapsack onto the seats right beside me. She stares directly at me, not with the usual fear or despair or resignation even, but with something else entirely–an ambivalence bordering on curiosity. Only young people have the audacity to stare this way, and even then this girl is unusual.
It’s my turn now to feel uncomfortable–the girl is too close, so close that I can feel the delicate thrum of life under her skin, trickling like an iced-over stream. Her mascara’s smeared from crying and her socks don’t match (one grey, one blue). When you’re me you notice such things, the small artifacts and incongruities that make up a life.
“Wanna listen?” the girl asks, earbud outstretched presumptuously. I shrug and she takes this for a yes. So I listen to her music, all tear-drenched chords and haunting melodies, the type of music that fills me with unwanted images of the places I’ve been and the people I’ve touched. The other passengers are all stealing glances now, gaping at me and my… strange companion. They don’t know that Death can be polite, kind even.
Off the bus at Bloor-Yonge station, I look back to find that the girl is following me. For a moment I’m a little flustered–normally it’s the other way around. I stop at the blocky, red transfer machine by the escalator, collecting exactly four blue transfers stamped with today’s date and time. I tuck them into my jacket pocket, pressing them into a growing mass of blue paper. (I’ve been at this a long time.) Small, everyday things like this say that I’m alive, that I’m really here, riding the subway, with places to be.
Today I choose the southbound train. It’s only slightly overflowing, a rarity for Monday mornings. Of course, I’ve got a couple of seats to myself. Sprawling out as I like to do, I scan the myriad ads and posters lining the subway car’s walls, hoping to be lulled to sleep. But today, sandwiched between ads for DoorDash and West Side Story (the musical), is something I haven’t seen down here for years–a poem. It’s called “Tomorrow, Always” by a local poet named Jesse June-Jack.
… Full of life, a subway train
travelling through
the ventricles of this ne’er shy city, where
tomorrow promised – is tomorrow always –
where you can find love because
this city is big enough for you to lose yourself –
but not big enough to be lost forever.
These last few lines cling to me like a long-forgotten song suddenly on the tip of my tongue.
The girl from the bus is in the same subway car as me (is she following me still?), her oversized yellow sweater sticking out like a sore thumb against a sea of greys and navy blues. Unlike most of the other passengers, she’s not transfixed by her phone. No, this one stares out the window, out into the cold, whirling darkness, as if searching for something just beyond reach.
And then she’s looking at me again, with something akin to longing or impatience or hunger. It’s all a bit tiresome to be honest, as if I haven’t seen so many like her in my time. I’ve held their bruised and battered hands, released them from their earthly struggles, granted them eternal sleep. And yet she’s somehow different, this one.
On a whim I get off at St. Patrick Station, the unruly heart of the city I now call home. Despite all these years I’m still drawn to the curious mix of ammonia, cinnamon and damp that greets me in the concourse, somehow a perfect match for the minty green subway tiles. A favourite subway musician of mine sings Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time”, her wistful voice so low it rises above the din. I slip a few dollars into her upturned cap, knowing that I’ll be… visiting with her again tonight.
The girl is a blurry, yellow figure in my peripheral vision, slowly coming into focus. She waves, trying to catch my attention. I let out a long sigh, quickening my pace. She’s not on my list, at least not today’s. Listening to her music on the bus was one thing… I am not one to be pushed into this sort of thing.
I find myself half-walking, half-running away from the girl, back down the concourse steps, back into the underground labyrinth. The girl is fast, yellow sweater billowing about like dust kicked up by Hades’ hellish chariot.
Fed up with this reverse game of cat and mouse, I turn and wait. We stand there momentarily, two kindred spirits united by the darkness within and without. My look tells her all she needs to know: if this is what she wants, then I will allow it. It is my job, after all.
Sprinting now, we stop just before the tracks, sneakers ignoring the yellow safety line. She wants to jump, and she wants my help. We hear the high-pitched whistle before we see the blinding lights: our train is here, just around the bend.
“Ma’am, step away from the tracks. Please, ma’am…” implores the voice from the train, brakes pulled too late.
I grab hold of her arm–she’s not cold like me, and this surprises me for some reason. (Did I think we were so much alike?) There’s a map of scars running along her skin–some old, some new, her very own compass rose. But there is still so much unmarked skin.
She winces at the coldness of my touch.
And so, I show the girl what I can offer. I show her barren fields where nothing lives and nothing dies, where neither sun nor moon rises or sets. I show her worlds above us, worlds below, all filled with souls lost forever. I show her my true self, the cold numbness that I am and that only I can grant. If she so choses, she can lose herself in me.
The girl recoils. She lets go of my hand and steps back from the ledge. The train rushes past and then screeches to a halt. Passengers get off and others get on, so many people with places to be–this underground full of life.
Once more we are alone, standing side by side on the subway platform, the girl’s mascara running again. She folds herself into my jacket, and I let her. A few silent moments pass between us and then I turn to go–up the concourse stairs and wherever I’m drawn to next. This time the girl doesn’t follow.
Myah is a young writer from Toronto, Ontario. Her writing often explores themes of belonging and family, while including fantastical or supernatural elements. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, Ripple Foundation and Write the World, and has appeared in Young Voices and Under the Madness.