Ride home

He caught my eye almost as soon as I stepped in. I glanced in his direction a number of times, and there was something about him that seemed to capture me.

He fidgeted nervously with his wallet, fingering with cards, pieces of paper and faded pictures. Now and then he'd look up, and I'd turn away to hide my look. The carriage violently lurged from one stop to another. The rest of the world seemed oblivious.

Then he unrolled his sleeve, and there were cuts. Fresh ones, some still bleeding. Scabbed ones from wounds before. Scars of hidden, untold miseries. All along the inside of his arm, red and hideous against his pale, smooth skin. He looked around, his head twitched. And out came a key that began to carve.

"Why are you doing this?" I wanted to grab him, to make him stop.

"It's too painful..."

"What's too painful? "

"The pain... at home..." He continued rubbing the sharp edges of the key against his arm. Did anyone else notice? Did anyone else care?

"Whatever it is, you don't have to do this to yourself..." I wanted to hold him close, tell him it'll all be alright. Tell him that it'll be over soon, even if it's a lie to deceive and comfort.

"I can't take it any more..." He looked at me, if only fleetingly. But it was enough for me to see the fear, anxiety and hurt deep down those blue empty eyes. Guilt-ridden, timid, yet crying out for help.

The tires screeched, and the train came to a bumpy halt. The doors loudly slammed opened, and the crowd began to pour out.

In one swift movement, he stood up, threw his hood over his head, and strode out of the carriage, disappearing to become one of the unknown, unseen, unheard and faceless bodies on the crowded platform.

I stood in an almost empty carriage. With all those words unsaid left alone in my head.