Yasha’s Train

It was the worst piece of news I had ever received during my whole highschool career. 

“Congratulations. You have hereby been accepted to the United States Military Academy at West Point.”

It’s weird though. Don’t most kids get happy whenever they are accepted somewhere?

 I think I know the reason. 

It’s because my dad went there. He always wanted me to go there and do everything he did. It’s been like this since day one. 

But I looked upon that letter with a feeling of foreboding and dread. My dad wanted me to do everything he did: Go to the same school, join the military, join the same infantry, go to the same places, retire at the same age, meet the same kind of girl and have the same kind of kids as him. 

It’s not that I was specifically opposed to go to a military university. It looked like it had excellent educational programs, faculty, facilities, etc. It’s just that if I went there, I knew that it would start off a chain of events that would lead me down the same exact path as his. This would just be the first domino to fall. 

I started feeling sick to my stomach. Like my intestines were literally tied together in a knot, and the two ends were being pulled in opposite directions.

I ran out the dining hall, without even saying a “thank you” to the lower class man who brought me my mail.

I needed air. 

I ran down the gray hallway, growing dim with the light of dusk that was still shining through the large stained glass windows that were on each side. I finally made it to the outside courtyard after what seemed like an eternity.

I ran over to the stone fountain in the middle and hunched over with my hands on my knees. I was seriously thinking about throwing up. The thing about throwing up is, people think that the worst part of throwing up is the actual act. That’s inaccurate. The worst part is the feeling right before, when you know you’re going to throw up eventually, but you don’t know when. 

It’s the feeling of suspense and not knowing when which is more agonizing. 

I was hunched over with my hands on my knees, looking at my reflection in the ripples of the water. I saw the face of a 18 year-old, but I felt like I was 108. I saw my face change to a wrinkled image, like that of a potato. I quickly looked away. 

I had been diagnosed with panic attacks ever since I was a boy. Since then I always took medication for it, but that didn’t always help. My doctor gave me specific techniques for coping with the symptoms such as slowing my breathing and going on walks. 

After 3 deep breaths, I stood up and started heading in the direction of “the spot”.

The boarding school was located in the countryside, with Oakinawa being the closest major metropolitan city. It was surrounded by a mixture of flat fields and forests of cherry blossom and hinoki Cyprus trees.

 About 5 miles from the very edge of the school grounds, there was a small forest located on a hill. The side nearest to the school rose gradually, but the other side of the hill was very steep - almost like the hill had been sawed in half by giants. 

At the very top of the hill, the trees became less dense, and near the middle there was a makeshift fire pit surrounded by scattered pieces of litter - mostly used cans of soup and beans. There were also several fallen trees that were conveniently placed by the fire that looked like they would be ideal for sitting.

This was “the spot” as Yasha and his friends liked to call it. They never went up there during the weekdays because there wasn’t enough time. Classes ended at around 3:00 PM. After that the students had free time, but they had to check back into the dorms at 9:00 PM - it was a boarding school after all. 

The weekend was the perfect time to go. That gave the boys enough time to walk to “the spot”. They had to walk over numerous hills and through pathless forests on foot. Once they got there, they had at least 3 hours to cook whatever food they had, smoke whatever off-brand cigarettes they had, and forget about that boarding school that they hated.

But it was a Tuesday. 

Yasha couldn’t wait until the weekend - he needed to get away. There was no way to get real privacy at that crowded boarding school. He had to get away or else his soul would rip a whole tear itself out of his skin.

He couldn’t even wait to change into his running clothes - he broke into a mad sprint. 

He didn’t even remember how he made it to that hill - what paths he took, or even if he stopped once to catch his breath. While running through thickets and jumping over trees, allI he could think about was following in his father’s dreaded footsteps. 

Living - but not actually being alive. To him, his father was a bureaucratic robot that was doomed to live in a dull office and never think for himself. To Yasha, such a fate was more terrible than death. 

He finally reached “the spot”, and fell down exhausted.

After laying down with his eyes closed, looking at the mountains of clouds in the dusk of the sky, he finally got up, and checked his watch. 

Where was the train?

At the other end of the other steep side of that hill, there were train tracks. Everyday at 4:30 PM a freight train would pass by. Usually he and his friends would wait for the train and throw rocks, just to see them harmlessly bounce off. 

He gingerly jumped to his feet, and started walking towards train tracks. Upon reaching the tracks, he checked his watch again. 

4:47 PM

He looked down both directions of the track. He could only see about 50 yds of track in either direction due to the thickness of the trees. He didn’t know why, but he felt a sense of anxiety and loneliness which came from the fact that he hadn’t seen or heard the train that day.

“But why was that? I don’t even like trains” He thought to himself. 

Just as he was about to turn around and walk home, he a faint whistle in the distance. 

The train was coming

A feeling of excitement and relief flooded his body. But there was still a feeling of anxiety that remained - like thick smoke after a house that had finished burning down.

He could finally see the train - steam was bellowing from its stack. 

But something happened that he did nit expect. The train was not moving very fast - in fact it was slowing down.

The main engine glided past him. It had just enough power to pull the passenger car so that the steps of the entrance stopped directly at Yasha’s feet.

One last blast of steam was discharged by the wheels of the engine.

He looked up at the black passenger car. It looked shockingly old - maybe as old as the 19th century. The door was made of Iron and on it was written “Order” in Japanese letters

Every thing he had ever learned screamed at him not to get on the train.

After a deep breath, he paused, and walked on board.