Faust

I will walk about in freedom, for I have sought out your precepts.

        Colorful and bountiful types of miserable souls hang their heads on necks, leaning on their arms, the doors, the handles, and colleagues' shoulders while the subway roams towards eachs' destination.

       Couldn't find a seat, and honestly, I don't want to. When strangers on a train don't bat an eye while another squeezes in next to you it feels like I'm picking a spot in a graveyard.

       So I lean my shoulder and violin case on the door. Drawn out the light of lamps on sides of the tunnel lined into rows of unstable neon tubes. They moved up and down, flickering but never overlapped each other. I turned my head and looked down, lifting my feet like I was checking if there was something under my shoes, while I peeked at the end of this carriage.

        Someone with their hoods up has been pressing his head in my direction for some time now. He's leaning on a bunch of posters stapled on the junction between carriages. The pure gray hoodie is a bit baggy, not the stylish type more like bought the wrong size at a discount.

       From this position I can't see his eyes, he's leaning on the right side of the train like me, head turned 45 degrees, half of his face is behind hoodie the other half in shades.

       Didn't pay much attention to him when I got on, though I'm positive he was there before I got on since I didn't notice anyone else on the platform before and this is an express, straight from Via Martinase to the lanes designed for the half deads in loose ties around me.

       I scratch the end of my sneaker for the act while checking if the knife a few inches above it is strapped tight enough.
       The fellow turned his face to the left in very slow motion, if weren't paying attention one would thought he's always like this. A light chill runs towards my nape. His hands are in kangaroo pockets.

What was it called? Liu Jiu?

The display screen with a couple of penis sketches at its corner shows the stop after St. Christofer is the grand plaza. None of the folks on this track look 'Disalos' enough to have business at that shithole, most likely lots of them will be off by the end of this minute.

        I turned my head back at those racing strings of light in the tunnel. Arms hugging myself.

        As the sound of screeching stops and a sense of reaction force violently interrupted the passenger's transit and exhausted state, some started gathering around me or more specifically, the door behind me.

        A middle-aged man in a waterproof coat squeezed through between a woman in casual wear with a cheap leather purse in hand and a man's polo shirt. The fucker blocks out my vision of the hoodie fellow.

      The invisible force that's dragging me back slowly fades as the incandescent tubes of the station shots through the greasy windows behind me.

      "This is St Christopher church. The next stop is, Plaza Linares. Transfer to..."

      As the announcement states the stop in the plainest joyful tone anything could utter, almost everyone in the carriage stood up. Cracking their joints, yawning, eyes half shut.

      It took a bit of effort to raise my arm in the middle of all the passengers slowly pushing me towards the door but I managed.

4:54, almost rush hour..... 40 seconds tops.

I push the guy in my coat to the side and squeeze past another man with a hideous mustache beside me to sit at the freshly empty seats and place my violin case on the ground. The mustache guy stares at me like I'm a madman, before the edge of his lip twitches and he turns back towards the door while muttering something.