Short story number two.

So, short story number two.

About half of this was written on the tube. I have this function on my phone where I can write an 'active note' and it saves all that I say - I can then put it onto my computer. I really prefer all the stuff I wrote on the tube, I think it's darker.

It all stemmed from me sitting on the tube, resting my head against the plastic with the bag in between my legs. I didn't have anywhere particular where I wanted to take it, I just started writing and thought I'll see what happens. So there was no pre-thought put into, I just went with the flow. I don't want it to be a thriller or a horror or anything. Obviously this created this evil sounding guy, and this fragile woman, but nothing happens. You can make up the rest.

I've done a wee bit on a little romantic piece which I'll finish off soon. In the meantime, here you go:

He rested his head on the cold plastic to the left of him. Nestling his bag between his ankles, he surveyed the surroundings. It had just turned twelve and it was likely that this would be the last tube of the night. The tube can be a very lonely place as the evening sky takes over; for every drunkard enjoying themselves and shouting down the carriage, there is a twisted soul. Someone carrying pain and heartache on their shoulders, but locking it away behind a neutral expression and a pair of earphones. It doesn't matter what colour line you choose, red yellow or blue, you can be sure they will be there. It was just these sorts that fascinated him. He would concentrate all his energy on them, hone in on their eyes and read the stories behind them. A man with a scar across his face did not interest him, no, he was only interested by those with secrets, stories that no one wanted to tell, and stories that nobody would know to ask about.

This evening his interest was targeted towards a young dark haired girl. She was wearing blood red heels, and a long, fitted, dark blue dress. Darker than the night sky, darker than the sea is deep. Her long hair and good looks grabbed attention, but even more striking was her pouting smile. Every woman on the carriage would have swapped their body for hers, she was toned but unashamedly curvy. She was beautiful, and her looks were attracting attention. To the untrained eye, she was a picture of happiness, but beneath that phony exterior was a very broken mind. He stared at her, trying to catch her eyes, to read her story, and true enough her beautiful eyes were an open book, the pages stained with blood and tears. Behind them he saw her pain; she was running from her husband. He had beaten her when he got drunk. After she threatened to leave he shredded all her clothes, apart from this one beautiful dress. They loved each other, but he could never love any woman more than he loved his mistress: liquor.

This dark blue dress was all she had left, and it covered her bruises perfectly. He could feel another soul crying inside her too, a baby, not yet developed. Not that he cared, he watched her like a hawk and waited for her stop. Kentish Town came and went, Camden too. But as the train slowed for Euston she eased out of the seat, and silently slunk out the door, much like she'd done an hour earlier in her own home. He was already standing, he knew she would get out here. He followed her out of the station, keeping a few steps behind her on the stairs. There are so many people underground you would never know if someone is following you, and in her weak state she was none the wiser. He was an experienced predator, he knew that prey like this was easy to hunt. He looked unassuming, nothing about him would catch anyone’s attention. He wasn’t hideous looking, nor was was he even plain, he simply didn’t catch the eye. He was average height and build, white, with short, light hair. His one notable feature were his long finger nails, they were ragged and sharp, but concealed beneath his gloves. As she came into Euston Train station she hesitated briefly, before going outside. He followed closely, and saw her light up a cigarette. Would it be her last? He slid over, and offered her a light, he knew she’d forgotten by the look on her face as she put the cigarette to his lips.

It was a windy night and the cigarette wouldn’t catch a light, so they went round the corner of the station, where they talked about where they were heading. She told him she didn’t know, but she just needed to get away. She had a little bit of money, enough to start again. She would have moved in with family, but they were either abroad or dead, so she had no other options. She was a hard worker, and was sure to get a job – especially if she turned up to work like this. She smiled, that’s why she could smile through all this, a new life would bring new opportunities and maybe even a new man in her life. She was remarkably open with strangers, the man just stood there listening, taking in her story.

When she asked him what he wanted to do, he sat down. His jeans protected the cold pavement from travelling through to his body, but the wind still travelled up his shirt. He leaned back, the hard objects in his bag pressed into his back.

“I don’t know. I’ve reached a stage in my life where I feel no matter what I do, or where I go, my talent is wasted. I can cry myself to sleep, I can travel on the lonely tube at night, it actually doesn’t matter because nobody really cares. My presence on this world doesn’t mean fuck all. If I died, someone would take my job, someone else would live in my house and the world would be better off”.

The woman didn’t know what to say, so she leaned down and hugged him. This stranger who only five minutes ago had offered her a light, she still didn’t know his name. But she was weak.