Catharsis

The weather was inclement now.  

More inclement than when the house had burned down.  

He supposed it was something to do with the train station. His eyes wandered past the usual galleries of muted colour; muffled tones of grey cement and pallid blues streaked across great snaking trains. The distinct aromas of creosote and hot electricity that wafted about and always made his nostrils weak. The metallic voice of the female PA announcer, whose robotic monotone played over and over in the minds of passers-by like a distant memory. 

Dull. Anaemic. It was too familiar. 

And now the weather had tried its best to match the gloom of the train station. Dark clouds hung above like a web of melancholy, threatening to burst soon. 

No.  

The weather wasn’t like this thirty minutes ago, back when the house had burned down.   

He could almost picture the scene in his mind as he scrambled to piece the fragmented images together. He could feel the stifling heat on his skin. He could remember the front door slamming shut like the crack of a whip as he fled. He could hear his father’s voice, calling. Pleading. 

He even remembered the sorry look on his father’s face as his feathery hair and piercing green eyes disappeared into the flames. That sorry look drove him mad. 

And he remembered himself: his own thin, fragile legs poised like a crane’s in the nearby creek. Watching. Observing the blackened remains of the house go down and feeling something small die inside of him. He couldn’t deny that he had burned the house down on purpose. There was, after all, something enlivening about fire; something irresistible about its death-dealing appetite. Something wild that made him giddy with excitement.  

And he loved it.  

His hands strayed towards the knife in the pocket of his jumper. He felt its polished metal on his skin. He’d had it for as long as he could remember.  

It felt like his best friend.  

He’d been called different ever since his childhood. And today, he’d unleashed that “different” side of him. He’d had enough of bottling it up, listening to all his doctors and parents and friends. He’d finally let it run loose – and boy did it feel good. It was a shame that the law didn’t support any of these actions. It was a shame that he’d have to flee by train. 

But he had to hurry. The guards would be on the hunt for him soon. 

His guts squirmed at the thought of that very word: guards. He caught glimpses of them where he was now at the train station – starved vultures patrolling the area, grisly beaks eager to dine on the cold entrails of the cattle class. Gathering citizens up and pecking away at their viscera, sending up a storm of dark feathers with the word “SECURITY” plastered across their backs.  

His attention returned to the railway when the PA announcer’s stiff voice rang clear once more. In a few moments, a sleek train arrived at the platform. Its arrival brought the sound of harsh, clashing iron. There was something strangely compelling about it. Its steel scraped to a stop and its doors opened alluringly. He stumbled inside. He had to. 

He was met by blasts of air conditioning; cold and sterile and frigid waves of the stuff. The carriage was mostly empty, except for a few passengers huddled up inside. They reminded him of cuts of meat at a butchery, thick granules of frost licking at their pink sides as they sat silently in their freezers.  

He sat in an empty compartment. The train had made its way out of the station now and was speeding over a riverside bridge. He glanced outside; the glassy contents of the river were pockmarked with droplets of rain. High in the sky, a muddled soup of storm clouds was interrupted by soft crackles of thunder and sleepy flares of lightning. It gave way to a big, grey mess of a scenic portrait that was oddly somniferous.  

And there was that effluvium of creosote again, sneaking around the seats. It made his blood boil.  

He reached towards the knife in his jumper once more; a surge of comfort rippled through his veins as he felt its cool steel on his fingertips.  

Within minutes, his leaden eyelids fell shut and he descended into sleep.  

He jolted awake. The train was now travelling through the depths of the countryside; he could tell from the feeble rays of sunlight peeking through acres of lush pastures and patched-up homesteads. His compartment doors slid open with a hiss. A girl around his age wandered in. She was attractive – an elegant face framed by feathery hair and piercing green eyes. His heart fluttered as she sat in the seat next to him. 

“I’m Lucy,” she purred. “I’m headed out west. What station are you getting off at?” Her voice was mellow, as if soaked in honey. 

“I’m h-heading out, um yeah… west too,” he blabbered, struggling against the sudden dryness of his throat. He melted against the mellifluence of her tone; it felt like she was knifing warm butter across his eardrums. He was happy to be awake. They sat without uttering a word as the train rattled on, but inside – inside, he was sick with infatuation. 

And her eyes – oh, her exquisite green eyes. They drove him mad. If he peered deeper into them, he could see the constellations unfurl. All the stars in space, all the nebulae and clouds of gas and clusters of galaxies and suns and planets and moons… he could see the universe inked deep within her enchanting pupils. She was perfect. Her heart was his home.  

And when he inched just that little bit closer and stared just that fraction deeper, he unearthed something else. Lust. Desire. When they finally locked lips, he could feel her reach into his soul and pat out the fires of his sorrows, shielding him from this bleak, bleak world. He pulled away and planted a trail of sumptuous kisses along her neck. She was everything.  

Suddenly, a thump. 

A whoosh.  

Outside the train, their surroundings went pitch-black. The lights flickered. Lucy’s features wavered under the malfunctioning electricity. She dug his nails into his arm and he could sense the uncertainty in her grip.  

He buried his hands inside his jumper pocket, clasping his knife tight.  

Another whoosh – the train zipped past a ring of yellow light, followed by another. And another.  

He breathed a sigh of relief; they had just entered a tunnel. Nothing major.  

Yet the train seemed eerily quiet. All that his ears could sense was the unsettling rattle and squeak of the vehicle’s movement as it shot – ring of light after ring of light – deeper into the depths of the hypnotic passage.  

Suddenly, the door to their compartment was shattered by a heavy kick. Shards of glimmering glass sprayed across the floor from the impact of the bombardment. Seconds later, the boot of a security guard stamped forward; the dreaded vulture put its gnarled claw forth. It was ravenous for raw meat. Lucy screamed – a bone-chilling scream that felt like a dagger to his heart. 

“Don’t you dare touch her!” he roared, wrapping his arms around Lucy. But the beast knew no mercy. It staggered towards him wielding a pair of handcuffs. He repulsed at the thought of those ghastly shackles; he would rather die than subserviate to the law.  

He grabbed hold of Lucy and dashed through the convoluted network of obstacles within the train. He stumbled through doors and crashed past seats, losing himself further within the dizzying labyrinth of carriages with the vulture hot in pursuit. The train was entirely empty now. With Lucy’s delicate wrist clamped firmly in his hand and his heart racing, he strayed deeper into the vast maze of glass doors.  

The train appeared bigger than it was.  

The psychedelic patterns strobed across the woollen seats made his head swim.  

The stench of creosote was stronger than ever.  

When he was sure that the guard was behind him, he lay Lucy down and sat beside her, panting. She sobbed. 

“Shhhh, don’t worry…” he whispered, brushing her hair aside and placing a kiss on her forehead. She whimpered. “Stay calm,” he reassured. “We’re in this together aren’t we?” 

She didn’t respond.  

“A-Aren’t we? Lucy?” 

Still, not a word left her mouth. For the first time, her eyes looked strangely lifeless.  

“Lucy? Say something!” 

But she did not. She just kept on crying. Despair crept into the corners of his mind. He gripped her shoulders and shook her violently. Her feathery hair flurried about as tears streamed down her body and puddled on her clothes. Her tears twinkled like diamonds; he wanted to save those precious tears.  

But still, she did not speak.  

As he glimpsed her face again, his heart leapt into his throat. It was ruined and blemished with tears. Once pretty, her face now looked demonically flawed. His hands dug instinctively into his jumper and he felt his knife nervously.  

“LUCY! TALK TO ME!” 

No answer.  

There was now something different building up inside of him; as he watched the wailing girl, a monster stirred inside his body. He could feel it awaken in the pit of his stomach, pulsing through his tendons and nesting in his brain. It was rage.  

In a split second, he drew his knife out and held it above his head with both hands. He held it there with bated breath, like a cobra’s venomous fangs ready to strike. Memories sprang to life before his eyes: his parents’ neglect, his school’s incompetence. The stupidity of society. Everyone was just so ignorant.  

And when he closed his eyes, everything went white.  

He stabbed her. 

She shrieked. Twisting it deeper into her flesh, he watched her writhe under his murderous gaze. Blood, blood everywhere; rivers of it spurting out of her and painting her velvety skin red. He removed the blade and drove into her insides again, slamming it hilt-deep into her until its steel was stained crimson. The crying ceased.  

He fell backwards onto the floor. When he raised his head again, Lucy was gone.  

No body; nothing. 

In place of her was a destroyed blue seat. The stuffing was spilling out, and scraps of fabric lay scattered upon gaping slashes. His skull pounded. Gradually, he moved his vision to his own stomach and saw a wide hole surrounded by a moat of blood. A wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He vomited onto the floor.  

Slowly, he rose from the floor like a hellhound rising from the abyss of hell. The next few minutes played out in fast forward. 

The vulture burst forward onto the scene. He reached for his knife again and lunged forward, ripping its feathers apart and stabbing its chest unrelentingly. Its eyes were motionless. Scarlet liquid trickled out of its sides.  

He bolted past three more sliding doors until he reached the driver’s room. His wild, crazed breaths did nothing to slow the hot gushes of anger coursing through him. He was lost – lost in the animalism of his own savage release. The two drivers were butchered like voodoo dolls, wounds splattering the control panel. The train spun out of control.  

As their lacerated bodies slumped to the floor, he watched a pair of familiar green eyes incarnate before him and disappear into the river of blood: first in his father’s straggly, stubbled face and then Lucy’s hauntingly beautiful one. 

He fell to the ground and his knife clattered down with him. All the years of pent-up fury and hurt and pain: it was all unbridled in sweet bloody catharsis. His eyesight moved to his own body; he could almost see his own intestines peeking out.  

He grinned. 

As he reached the end of the tunnel, death greeted him with open arms.  

And it all felt so strangely comforting.