Trapped

He is sitting in a carriage, jostled by every irregularity on the dirt road, the rhythmic clip-clop of horse hooves from up ahead drowning out the birdsong endemic to the woodland landscape surrounding him. The air is heavy with moisture, and every inhalation he takes carries a trace of the muskiness worn into the leather seats by countless passengers who’ve ridden this ferry from town to nowhere.

Beads of sweat dot his face and the faces of the other two passengers sitting across from him, despite the breeze passing through the open sides of the carriage. They are, he notes, a young couple riding towards their future, while he is riding away from the long years of his past and the embroiled consequences of his actions, some less grave and some that he will wear upon his conscience like a crown of thorns for as long as he draws breath. He finds it interesting that they’re all headed together to the same destination, away from the city and its civilization, wondering what motives have brought this couple to be in this particular place at this specific moment.

The young woman dabs repeatedly at her brow with a handkerchief, battling the incessant, wet beads that reappear despite her best efforts toward their elimination. Perhaps it is because she might be deemed unladylike in a society that frowns upon perspiry females. Schooling in matters such as those is foreign to him.

But he’s not socially inept. He understands propriety demands he refrain from staring at her movements for too long, her attractiveness notwithstanding. And despite his curiosity, he doesn’t ask. Instead, he looks to his right, focusing on the flowering trees passing by his gaze, their pollen carried on every breeze.

Just then, his allergy kicks up and he sneezes. His eyes squinch in response, and even as he opens them in those few seconds, ready to apologize to the other occupants of the carriage for his untimely action, he’s suddenly sitting in a train station, having arrived through no prompting of his own. His suitcase, holding the sum total of his possessions, is pressing up against his side, his arm laying claim to it as he cradles it close.

The smell of smoke still lays heavy in the air even as the echo of ash, born of coal-fired engines, has long been trampled underfoot by the inexorable footfalls of progress marching down its one-way path with a never-changing target of a better tomorrow.

Better and worse. He scoffs. How absurd. He wonders if anyone can look at history and assert that recent events have proven to be better than ancient history’s. Wars, disease, murder, covetousness, discontent—nothing has changed. Well, he thinks, at least trains run on electricity and not coal anymore. That’s better, isn’t it? The thought makes him laugh out loud, and he notices, crossing his path, the same couple who’d shared the carriage ride with him staring, no indication of recognition on their faces. That carriage ride occurred a century before electric trains were even thought possible. Maybe I’m going crazy, he thinks. He can’t be sure of much anymore. Crackling over the loudspeakers, he hears his destination called, boarding available. Standing and grabbing his suitcase, he heads to the platform and the awaiting train, all sleek and silvery. As he puts his foot on the first step leading up to the carriage, his suitcase opens of its own accord, much to his dismay. He utters an expletive, not wanting to form a bottleneck with dozens of people heading toward his door. So, he hurriedly bends over and throws his belongings back inside in helter-skelter fashion, snapping the case securely.

As he straightens again, he finds himself in an airport, air-conditioned, modern, and spacious. All around him, people are scurrying to get to their gates, some luggage carried in their hands while others roll them on the floor, the hubbub reminiscent of an amusement park minus the laughter. Everyone looks serious, intent on getting to where they need to be and in no mood for distraction.

Confusion sets in, and he stops moving where he stands, creating an obstacle for the passersby to maneuver around. From one moment to the next, he gets bumped by a couple in an apparent hurry. Eyes wide, he recognizes them for the third time, even though they take no notice of him. Then, without warning, his ticket falls from his pocket without prompting, the boarding pass sliding out from its envelope. Bending down, he picks it up and reads the gate number stamped upon the paper. Looking up, he gets his bearings and walks towards his gate. Boarding has begun when he arrives, so he hands over his boarding pass to the agent and finds his seat. After a few minutes, snugly accommodated in its cushion, he feels the plane start taxiing. His heart races, as is always the case. Before long the engines are gunning and the airplane is speeding down the runway. He grips the armrests with knuckle-whitening pressure and swallows hard as he closes his eyes for those first few seconds aloft. There is little in life he hates more than those first few moments away from terra firma.

A deep sigh, and he dares a peek. He’s now in his study in stockinged feet, a comfortable robe draping down his body as he reads an article entitled, Escaping Mortality. He pauses at the end of the paragraph and gently grasps the snifter from the side table he has owned for many years. He swirls a small sip of brandy in his mouth and then places the crystal back down. Turning his attention once more to the article, he discovers it’s a blank page. Unsurprised, he doesn’t react because he’s been trying to get away by any available means—in a horse-drawn carriage, boarding a train, or taking off in an airplane—even though death’s inescapable claimant draws ever closer with each tick of the clock, offering him (and you) no extrication.