The Platform [NOW PUBLISHED]

The Platform - 1

There are many things I am uncertain of, sitting here on this platform, but of one thing I'm sure: Somebody does not belong here.

I steal another glance at the blonde-haired teenage boy sat cross-legged on the floor in front of me, a little to the left, as he strums a tune on his guitar. His head is down, watching his own fingers produce a melody that none of the rest of us particularly enjoy. And yet, for his sake, we say nothing. He is not playing to pass the time; he's not even playing to impress us. I suspect he plays because the silence of this unearthly platform makes him uncomfortable, and he knows why he's here.

Beside me, curled up with her legs drawn into her chest, is a young woman. She rests her chin on her knees, keeping herself closed off from everybody else. Her hijab is a mess, as though she'd fixed her appearance in a rush this morning. Her expression is blank, and I almost want to ask her how long she has been staring at that crack in the floor tiles for. What does she expect will happen if she looks away? If she dares to catch the gaze of another human being locked down here? She knows why she is here, but not the reason.

Alone, at the far end of the platform, I see a hunched figure in a black coat which comes down to his knees, turned away from the rest of us. He is sat on the only object on the platform,  a concrete block, with his knees spread apart and his elbows resting upon them. I've been staring at him for a while now and he hasn't moved an inch, barely even breathing. He's been here the longest, I feel, and he's tired. More tired than I may ever know. He knows why he's here, and he's waiting for the train like an old dog waits for its master's return.

The remaining two are a couple covered in blood. The man - dark-haired, in his early thirties and dressed in what was once a perfectly ironed striped shirt - cradles his girlfriend. His fingers dig into the bruised skin of her upper arms, leaving pale circles whenever he readjusts his grip. The woman sobs under her breath; her grief is evident in the pink flush of her eyes and the way her hands writhe restlessly with the hem of her dress. She doesn't want to cry, but she knows why she's here, and it's too much for her. I sense her partner also knows why he's locked down here on this platform, but he is only fooling himself if he thinks he can escape his fate before the train arrives.

Lastly, I gaze up at the announcement board for the Helatide and sigh through my nose. What did I expect would change? There is no departure time, no stops, no destination written in those orange LED letters. It's been the same since I'd got here. I no longer know how much time has even elapsed since then. Behind me is the track that the train, wherever it is, runs on: a single blue beam of light pulsating like the screen on a heart-rate monitor. I've never before seen a train in an underground station run on a track like that before, and, of course, my naturally curious self wonders how it works. And where does it go?

Over to my left, the teenage boy begins to hum to his tune. Immersed in his music he's probably never heard himself sing before, or none of his friends and family have ever had the kindness to tell him he's tone deaf. But the silence is worse. His strumming at least tunes out the woman's sniffs and sobs. Still, none of us say anything. The bedraggled soul beside me bores her gaze further into the cracked floor tile, the couple a little farther away block everything else out, and the mysterious man at the far end of the platform perches still as a gargoyle.

How much longer will we have to wait? How many more hours will it be until we hear anything but our own breathing and the twang of guitar strings? I only have myself to blame for being here. The whole adventure had been my fault. I, too, know the reason I've wound up on this platform, waiting for the Helatide to arrive. I sense every one of us knows our situation, why we are here, even if we don't understand it, and yet something isn't right. One of us doesn't belong here. Why can't I get it out of my mind?