Oct
A Train
By N. Jin
I was going home from Marcus’ bus stop after school. It was the long way, but I walked near the field and his house to spend those extra moments flirting. His butt underneath the backpack was worth the trip.
I was fantasizing about our wedding when I walked through the roundabout of garages. Kissing Marcus with a backdrop of lights and music was such a nice daydream, I didn’t realize I wasn’t alone until a nose popped in front of my own.
His face was a devil of tattoos and pockmarks, and his smile was bored but hungry. I yelped quizzically. I kinda knew him from school. He was a Blood as his bright red shirt would proudly attest. Someone grabbed my backpack, whipping me around to see three more. Not from the school. More tattoos and red, stark as lightning in the gray day. The devil grabbed my arms, trying to pin my elbows to his body.
In my mind I went through the safety list, solar plexus, instep, nose, groin, scream, struggle.
Be aware of your surroundings.
I stomped on his foot, and began kicking out while he held me fast. I whipped my head back and heard a small, satisfying crunch. He laughed, tightening his grip until my muscles and bones groaned under his fingers.
“Got us a feisty one yo.”
His voice was keening and hyper like a hyena. This devil was high on something. I tried to go limp, but his grip on my arms shot pain into my shoulder joints while I continued screaming, “no, stop, help”, all the while afraid to say the one word that would unlock my imagination and wrap it around the reality of the situation.
I wasn’t surprised.
I’d been warned about my route.
The red pawns grabbed my kicking legs and helped drag me behind the house nearest the field. Devil man bled and spit as he dropped me on my backpack, stabbing book corners unto the flesh over my ribs.
If only Marcus would come outside and look, he would see. Maybe.
I fought. The Bloods fought. The devil ripped my leggings and made someone pull my hair. A knife. I didn’t feel it enter me, but I felt the pain. “That was for my nose”, he grunted.
I couldn’t breathe. They were heavy and I couldn’t breathe. First the devil, then the red pawns.
Like a squealing, laughing, turning wheel.
One to hold my arms and hair.
One on each leg.
One to ride.
I swear I fought.
The Devil rode again, and stabbed me again. I felt that one enter my gut. Blood in my throat made it harder to inhale. I was getting tired.
Above, the leaves blew, and the sun appeared through the fence. I lay there looking to the light, no longer hiding in the gray.
No one came.
They kept on.
That’s what I got for walking that way.
Not Marcus.
A train.
Tiffany V
I integrate Transformative Language Arts into any work I do, and I work with people all over the world, but I can't tell you who they are, due to NDAs! I was once told, “you exude art.” So, I decided to spend the rest of my life helping other like-minded individuals get to do the same. Let’s do something magical together!
This story which is indeed dark, violent rape, a fight for life, raw, bloody, hot and cold emotions, but subdued in graphic language loses nothing in terms of impact line per line. Perhaps the greatest compliment I can afford the author, other than the excellence in continuity and editing, is that it repulsed every part of my being. I read this entry twice to be fair, but being a woman I wish I had never read it at all . Rape is not sex in my opinion. This writing did present effectively a malicious vengeance of murderous intentions served in cold blood. “A Train” is a victim’s horor story without humor or humanity with remorseful guilt.
I wanted to add a side observation not germaine to this story, but to all of the stories and poems. The letters here are put in bold with the author being italicized as well as the keynote warning of “Be aware of your surroundings.”
I found this story easier on my eyes to read, because of this greater contrast and emphasis moments. The font appeared larger and more accessible in my opinion.
Perfect.
Perfect? The writing is clean, but I found it more interesting on the positive side that there was no sex identity listed as far as the victim was concerned. Did everyone assume the victim was female? I didn’t.
On yet another side note, it is NEVER the victim’s fault! Being warned, being vulnerable, men will be men if seeing you excites or angers them, making poor choices does not give any man a license to commit rape. I am sick of any suggestion that rape or abuse can be ever be justified or that a victim should ever feel guilt whether they fight back or do their best to survive such a violation. Well written? Yes. Perfect? No.
Very powerful story.Beautifully told and unraveled. So painful. Thank you for sharing this.
It’s a dark flash but still clearly visible in one’s head where this excellent piece is visualized.
I did wish to point out that the mention of “Not Marcus.” “A train.” seems to me to be an add-on, two-liner to make this story fit this contest. The story “Headlights”, which follows this story, closes using the same method (in my opinion), but with more than two lines.
I just don’t know what to say. The images running through me from the words I’m applauding but… it hurts too much reading this.
Very, very good indeed!
Whether fiction or confessional, this was a risk to share and we appreciate this. Writing can serve as therapy as well as educating others and making pain into a kind of beauty. This seems to do all three. The author draws us into the scenes immediately with swift action, and the voice of a young person is believable. Good work!