The Platform [NOW PUBLISHED]

The Platform - 2

The man in the black coat gets to his feet, and all heads in the room turn in his direction. Except for the teenage boy's. The man stands for a moment, listens, and his fists curl.

"Cut it out," he growls. I note his American accent.

The boy with the guitar finally lifts his gaze, stops mid-strum and his mouth falls open a little. I make eye-contact with him and nod towards his guitar.

"About time," the man says.

"Who, me?" asks the boy. He sounds too cheerful. Too annoying. "Something up with my playing?"

"If you knew what kind of a place this is, you wouldn't be doing anything at all. Just sit still, shut up, and wait for the train like the rest of us."

The boy puts his guitar down on the tiles with deliberation. "I know what kind of place this is," he replies. I have to commend his sheer boldness to answer back to the man in the black coat. "I've known for a whole two years I'd wind up here."

I lift my chin. "Two years?"

He shrugs. "Cancer," he says, and his gaze falls on the track behind me. His deep brown eyes flash with each pulse of blue light. Finally, the man sits again, resuming his brooding. "You?"

"I guess I drowned, after all," I answer him. "Totally preventable."

"What happened?"

The memory is still raw. I hope my friends don't blame themselves for leaving me behind. I hope my parents still love me. "I was ... exploring. You know, some caves off the coasts of Sri Lanka. The tide came in, and me and some friends got trapped, and I ... I totally thought I could make it."

"I'm sorry," he says.

I sigh again. "Shit happens. At least those I left behind can say I lost to nature, and not anything or anyone -"

"Careful what you say next." The young woman beside me wraps her arms around her legs.

"What happened to you?" the teen with the guitar asks.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"And where else can you talk about it?" grunts the man in the black coat. "We're all here for the same thing. Nothin' anybody does or says can change what'll happen when Helatide gets its damn ass here."

I touch the young woman's arm. "You don't have to tell anybody, if you'd rather not."

"I never want to relive that moment," she whimpers to the floor. "Never. Never. Never. There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could ... I couldn't save myself from him ..."

"Shh. It's okay."

"Guys," the teen says, turning to the distressed couple at the back. I cringe inside. How can he be so cheerful at a time like this? Is he blind? "What happened to you two?"

The blood-covered man catches his girlfriend's eye before answering. "RTA," he mumbles in response, and hangs his head again.

"RTA?"

"Road traffic accident," the man in black interjects.

"I'm sorry," he says to them with a sad smile. "I'm sorry for you all, actually. You've all had a pretty rough time. I knew I'd end up here, and, sure, it was scary from the word go, but I've made the last two years count. I've said my goodbyes, done everything I wanted to achieve, seen all the places I wanted to see. I've no regrets. I'm sorry you all couldn't do the same."

I speak up. "Is that why you're so happy about being here?"

"I wouldn't say I'm happy, but I accepted boarding the train long ago."

"So did I," says the man the far end of the platform. "Don't mean I'm happy to be here."

"What happened to you?"

The man finally turns towards us, throwing out the lengths of his black coat as he does so. His face is hard and harsh, his small brown eyes piercing in the gloom. He's bald on top, though sports a bushy grey beard, and I spy the glint of a gold ring through his septum. "You wanna know what happened to me, do ya?" he half-chuckles. "Some guts you got, kid. Some guts. Don't you know who I am?"