The Price of a Soul

- f o u r - echo

9th December, 1994.

5:55 a.m.

The station is deserted, as I expected it to be. It’s a Sunday. Nobody in their right mind would take a train this early on Sunday.

The piece of paper is crumpled in my hand. It is cold; the wintry air nips my cheek and turns my ears to ice, but for some strange reason my palm is slick with perspiration. 

The message is simple: If you love me, meet me at Nelson Station platform 3, 9th Dec 6:00 a.m. It is a copy of the note I slipped into Elise’s bookbag Friday afternoon, just so I don’t get the details wrong myself. Timing is excruciatingly important here.

I am wearing the scarf Elise knitted for me last Christmas, a symbol of the love she had for me. Because if she doesn’t look at me the same way as she did when she handed me this scarf, there is no point in keeping it anymore.

5:56 a.m.

I imagine Elise hurrying over, her woollen beanie hat lopsided across her ears, those oversized Uggs making her stumble. 

“I’m not late, am I?” she asks. Her face is flushed, as if she has been running.

“No, you aren’t, and all that matters now is that I know you love me,” I say fiercely, and we share a long, passionate kiss.

5:57 a.m. 

It is cold, so very cold. The winter air manages to seep through non-existent gaps in my clothing, and I feel like I am immersed in ice water.

I wonder if that is what drowning in a frozen pond is like. 

My lips are chapped. My facial features, my whole body is numb. I don’t think I can even muster a smile when she comes. My muscles would need to thaw out beforehand, like what we do with frozen steak. Elise would appreciate this kind of humour.

The only part of my body that is still warm is the hand that is clutching to the piece of notebook paper. 

5:58 a.m.

This wouldn’t be the first time that Elise is late, if she is. She was late for our first date, precisely a year ago, on a wintry morning such as this. Apparently she overslept, but we still managed to make it in time for the start of the movie. It was fortunate that I had told her to meet me an hour before.

I’m not paranoid, whatever people say. Just careful. Just doing my job in making sure everything runs as it should, in an orderly fashion.

5:59 a.m.

I know Elise still loves me. I just have to make sure that those rumours are simply rumours spread by those envious of our relationship. There is no doubt that Elise is the most beautiful girl in the school, in the world.

Did we not lie under the stars one sweltering summer night in close proximity, our bodies touching? Did she not turn to me with clear blue eyes and tell me that sweet voice of hers, “I love you to the stars and back?”

6:00 a.m.

It’s 6:00 a.m. it’s 6:00 a.m. it’s 6:00 a.m.

I expect Elise to approach me any time now. My hand throbs painfully. The paper feels coarse and sharp against my skin.

I feel lightheaded. Is the air around me warming up? It doesn’t feel like winter at all; it is like I have been wrapped into a cocoon so tightly I cannot breathe or move.

I am nauseous. I see spots of light moving in my peripheral vision. Perhaps I am dying. This is not a good time for a heart attack; Elise could arrive in the next moment.

The longest hand on my watch moves, mocking me with every passing second. A low rumbling sounds in the distance. The 6:00 a.m. train has arrived; but Elise has not.

The note flutters out of my hand, yet I no longer care. I drop to the ground next to it, and before my mind registers what my body is doing, I have crawled to the edge of the platform like some pathetic insect. 

The train has arrived; but Elise has not. It is 6:00 a.m.

I fall onto the track, and beg for death to claim me, because I cannot stand knowing the truth.

6:15 a.m.

I am slipping in and out of consciousness. 

Faces appear above me, but I fade away again before I can discern them.

Then, cruelly, I see Elise. Her face is one that I would recognize anywhere. She is crying. The scarf in her hand is familiar, but there are dark reddish brown patches on it that I do not recall as part of the pattern. 

“Why did you do this? I love you…”

She loved me. Not anymore.

“I never got your note. You put it in Katie’s bag, not mine! She only called me just now, and here I am, because I love you! Please… you don't deserve this...” 

Why?!

Then darkness engulfs me, and I know no more.