The Pretty Place

Trigger warning: themes of violence and death of children.

You blink slowly, tearing your eyelids apart, they flutter, drooping as you look around.

You are on a train, your cheek pressed against a frigid, clear surface, maybe a window. The cold burns into your cheek. Like a cat, it crawls into your flesh and settles deep inside your bones, refusing to move. You pull your face away with a shudder, wiping water off of your cheek.

You blink, feeling rather than seeing the water on your hands. You look back at the surface and find ice where you thought the window was. You squint at it.

Strange. You think rubbing at the chilled part of your face again, the cold is stubborn. Refusing to budge. What is this?

You look through the ice into the landscape outside. The ground falls back, losing the race against the train. It flickers in and out, you can't make out anything without the light.

It is night, and pitch black. The moon is dead, it has drowned in the inky black sky. The thousand pinpricks of light are pale. They could be bones. Shattered bones.

No, that can't be right. Those are stars. Aren't they?

You drag your eyes away from the ice and blink again, waiting for sleep to wear off and drop you back in your bed.

It does not come.

When you focus your gaze, you see someone sitting across from you. Their eyes meet yours and you stare at them.

"Hello." They say. Their voice is gravely, tired. You look closer and see the person is a man. He has dark black hair and dark brown eyes. Something about his skin seems... seems off.

"Hello." You say softly, surprised at the timidness of your voice.

"You are a young one." He says softly.

You squint slightly. Why can't you remember yourself?

Then the memory comes, creeping slowly over your eyes. You are small, only eleven. Your eyes are milky with damage and your body is riddled with scars you didn't put there. You can't remember why. Now you think about it, you can't remember anything about yourself. In your life, you remember only confusion. Stumbling in darkness and pain. Then you remember waiting. Waiting for a very, very long time, what were you waiting for?

"I am." You whisper in agreement, your head twists, your eyes darting and squinted with mistrust. "Where..." You look back at the window. "Where are we?"

The man looks at you, pity fills his eyes. "Ah." He says. "We are on a train."

You fiddle with your clothes. Running the scratchy fabric over your fingers. You wrinkle your nose suddenly, surprised to find a horrible smell in the little room on the train. It smells of rotting and sadness and age. Did you miss that smell before?

"What kind of train?" You ask the man. Dropping the fabric and letting your hand fall onto the cushioned seat.

"A special train." The man says softly, he leans back slightly. Letting out a tired sigh he gives me a small smile.

"Why are the windows on the train ice?" You ask, reaching out and pressing your fingertips against the cold. You shudder as your fingertips touch it.

"It's..." the man hesitates for a moment. "It's prettier." He finally says.

"Oh," You say.

We are silent for a moment before you speak again. "Where does this train go?"

The man sighs again, this time sad. "Somewhere safe. Somewhere safe and beautiful, somewhere full of happiness. Somewhere pretty."

He's said that word twice now. You wonder if he likes the word. Then you pause, trying to remember if you like it as well.

After a moment's pause, you decide you do.

Looking back at the man, you tip your head slightly. "How did I get on here? I don't remember buying a ticket." You say.

The man smiles. "I didn't buy a ticket either. I don't really want to be here."

You pause for a moment, considering his words. "Do you not want to go to the pretty place?" You ask.

The words feel strange on your tongue, you imagine them, a jumble of letters begging to be words. In their haste, they got scrambled, lost, and stuck together with partners that didn't match them.

He considers your question for a long moment. "I do want to go to the pretty place, but I don't want to go now." He says slowly.

"Then why did you get on the train?" You ask.

"I didn't have a choice." He says.

You frown. "I don't think I did either." You say, fiddling with your clothes again.

He gives a halfhearted smile. "No. I don't think you did. What happened to you little one?"

Your head tilts, and you look at him puzzled. "What do you mean?" You ask.

"Your covered in scars, and your eyes are cloudy."

You shrug, a slight flush creeping up your cheeks. "I don't remember."

"Maybe that's better." The man says softly.

"Why did we end up on this train?" You ask, looking through the ice again.

He hesitates for a long moment before he finally lets out a sigh, loosening his shoulders he closes his eyes. "We died."

You blink, horror trickling through your body like ice water. 

"What?" You ask, your voice small and trembling.

"Oh little one." He says softly. "I'm sorry."

You stare at him, and suddenly you realize what was strange about his skin.

It's peeling and rotting, falling off his bones to show pearly white. The smell of rotting flesh is the one that made you curl your nose. Your eyes are wide and your hands are trembling.

"I can't be dead." You say, your voice cracking. "I'm not supposed to die yet." Your words come in broken fragments, choking on a dry sob.

Strangely enough, you don't feel sad. You are only confused, and scared. You don't know why but some part of you was happy to be here. You ask yourself why, and slowly, slowly you begin to remember.

Flashes of hands. Angry hands. Hands banging into eyes and pain. Pain and clouded eyes. Confusion and screams and then pain again. Pain as a window shatters and leaves thousands of gashes on young flesh barely masked by cloth, air curls around you like a blanket, and you fall.

Pain. Pain going through your back and into your body, splitting your broken heart in two and dying you red.

Slowly, so, so slowly you look down at your chest. There is a gaping hole in the fabric and a similar one in the flesh. It no longer oozes blood, but it stiffens and scabs. You look at the rest of your body and see the paleness of flesh without blood.

You look back up at him. Your voice is raw and pained. "Why?" You whisper.

He shrugs, scooting over and offering you the seat next to him.

"Nobody knows little one. The world is full of cruel people."

“Who are you?” You ask softly, all the while looking at the seat hesitantly. He pauses, waiting for you to move.

You stand up, walking past the window made of ice, and sit on the seat next to him. His skin is just as bloodless as yours. You are careful not to touch the hanging tendrils of rotting flesh.

You look down, then remember your flesh wound and close your eyes. Tears threaten to squeeze out of them, but your body has no moisture to give.

"I don’t know my name, only a little about myself.” He says honestly, shrugging lightly. “I have children and grandchildren. I was sick and now I am not. I was old when I died. I'm sorry the same cannot be said for you.”

You nod. Suddenly, the train stops, and the doors click open.

“I’m scared.” You whisper, your voice raw and trembling. You look up at the man as he kneels to meet your eyes.

"It's alright little one." He says gently, offering his left hand. The least disfigured out of the two. "I'll take care of you."

So slowly, you take the rotting flesh on his hand in yours, and admire the difference between your hands. Yours small and pale, scarred and angry. His dark and rotting, yet still safe and warm.

As you step out of the little room, you glance one time out the ice window. Outside there is life and growth, and the fear fades out of you all at once. You smile softly looking back at the man, all you can manage is a small whisper. 

“It’s beautiful.”