Seven Years on a Train

The charismatic sound of shifting gears awoke Marlowe from a heavy slumber. When she gained consciousness, her head throbbed with pain like none she had experienced before. She felt with her hand the ground beneath her; rough, ridged, and cold to the touch. Deep within it, Marlowe sensed a light tremor shaking the surface, the feeling reminding her of a car speeding on uneven, rugged terrain--bumpy.

 She gradually opened her eyes, blinking to focus in on a strange picture in front of her, the image of a luminescent ball of light swinging carelessly overhead. The intense light made her squint as she moved her eyes to rusty, steel pipes a few feet above that crisscrossed and expanded everywhere--some lining together three at a time, while others crossed behind and in front. The sight prompted Marlowe with the vague memory of a photograph she once viewed of a birds-eye-view of a corn-maze at a carnival she attended when she was seven. She examined her surroundings in bewilderment. The ground slightly bounced every five seconds, causing her vision to waver. She unsteadily stood up, noticing a translucent window against a wall of pipes in front of her. Through it, she observed a desolate wasteland that stretched for miles into the distance, nothing else but graphic mountains bordering the horizon. A mix of confusion and curiosity filled Marlowe's head, like a cup overflowing with water. She stood there, awestruck by the anomalous landscape.

Marlowe raised her hand to the window, resting her fingertips on the glass. She closed her eyes, darkness, and emptiness swallowing her mind whole. For a long, uncomfortable moment there was nothing, just heavy silence--no other sound but the chorus of gears shifting, the low hum of electricity hanging heavily in the air, and her breath and steady heartbeat. Until, suddenly, there was a cackling laugh, far, in the back of her head. Instantly, she was taken back to the day her parents brought her to the carnival; smells of sweet, sugary, and deep-fried everything filling her nose, the sounds of screaming people on rides that spun so fast they would make you hurl and attractions that reached so high in the air and dropped down into deep slopes. Marlowe smiled, looking through youthful, owl-wide eyes that watched as swirling colors sped by and bright circus lights flicker, almost as if they were winking at her. As she grinned through her seven-year-old mouth coated with sticky, strawberry ice cream, drops of the sugary cream rolled down her chin and dripped onto the flaxen grass crushed beneath her feet, landing on top of her small, exposed sandal toes.

Young Marlowe wandered the bizarre scene, peering at everything through big eyes, all the while holding out little, grabby hands; one of the palms still clutching a pleasant, chocolate-covered waffle cone with melting strawberry cream inside, tightly enough to the point it would almost crush under the weight. She made her way down an aisle of booths, showcasing games and vibrant plushes varying in many types and species. Then, she skittered over to a stand full of savory snacks and delights; the aromatic scents of salted pretzel, cheesy popcorn, and juicy hotdogs making her mouth water. As she stared at the strange hieroglyphs on the menu, from behind her, she heard a familiar voice calling, beckoning her to come. She whirled around and saw her mother, motioning with her arm for her to come over to where they were standing in line--a small line leading to a giant wheel slowly moving with baskets full of people and blinking lights. She licked her lips and hurried over to where they were waiting, excitement pumping its way through her veins. As they waited, Marlowe’s imagination let loose; she envisioned the wheel like an enormous clock, the second hand ticking in rhythm with the flashing lights and the circular perimeter moving every minute to the beat of the small and big hands. When she and her parents came to the point of entry, Marlowe heard a strange noise come from behind her. Her heart stopped. The sound was like a cackling laugh from a witch. She cautiously turned around and witnessed a huge, wooden sign depicting a large, round-shaped witch with olive-green skin, a long, pointy nose, a smile with few teeth sticking out, and cartoon-like eyes pointing to words over its head. Above, Marlowe carefully read out the name The Cackling Cauldron. Immediately after, everything went black--nothing but thick silence and the distant sense of solitude in the atmosphere. 

Marlowe reluctantly opened her eyes, sorrow and the longing to be home clinging to tears that fell from her eyes. She smoothed out her hand against the glass window, feeling the eery, cool touch of coldness crawl up her hand, making her shiver. She lifted her hand from the glass and stared vacantly at her expression in the reflection it cast, longing for another vacation with her family again. Sadly, she knew it was never going to happen. Back then, her parents were happy--spirited partners with a love she couldn't comprehend with her child-mind. However, now that she was twelve, she partially understood why they separated. They always struggled and yelled at each other when she was asleep in her childhood bed, their shouts echoing in the chasmic hallway outside her bedroom door. Unfortunately, she couldn't fathom why they both left her behind at a foster home. At the very least, one of them should've had the audacity to take her with them, right? The answer wasn't so simple. She was alone. The truth was undeniable. 

Marlowe moved on from the window and walked to the right down a long tunnel of pipes, clouded steam escaping from a few of them. She continued for a little while before a sudden feeling of sleepiness overcame her. She stretched out her arms and let out a long yawn. Gently, she lowered herself to the rough, ridged, cool floor she had come to know before. She spread out, laying her face and body down against the chill surface and shut her eyes, inky-black darkness enveloping her mind once again, a symphony of shifting gears lulling her to sleep. After that, the only thing Marlowe sensed was a slight tremor originating deep within the ground.