The Blue Line © Benjamin Christensen
In the heart of the deepest valley, on a piece of land that if you went any farther north you would indeed be going south, echoes the ominous whistle of the Blue Line train. Barreling through the naturally cut ravine on tracks made from glass and ice, tracks it never actually touches, the foreboding lead car spews smoke as black as the midnight sky.
The metal behemoth lunges through the arctic landscape but once a night. At the coldest, loneliest hour of darkness thousands board one of its dozens of frost-covered rail cars but each one takes the ride alone.
The blue-line was something of a myth, one of the sort that if you heard someone say its name, something would click in the dusty recesses of your skull, something telling you, “ I think someone told me to stay away from that once.”
With that voice always subtly nestled in the depths of your subconscious it is hard to believe that when you woke up suddenly on a ground that seemed to be moving, with no recollection of how you arrived there, you didn't think of the train. But then again why would you?
You rub your temples and push your palms against your eyes.
Where the hell am I? You groggily think to yourself. You search for your voice but all that comes up is scratches in your throat.
Everything is dark. A faint blue glow surrounds it all. The blue aura seems as if it does not have a source of origin -but the very molecules and particles that make up the air itself were actually blue themselves.
You push yourself from the vibrating wall of whatever it is you are sitting in and stick your head into the main walkway. Your breath visibly escapes you like wisps of smoke from an elegantly held cigarette. A distant sound reverberates through the night air, a fierce howl that almost any one could recognize; a steam trumpet.
The Blue Line.
Your hands begin to tremble as you realize where you are. The color drains from your face and melts through your veins like gasoline to fuel the growing pit in your stomach. You cough but the only sound is simply a gasp that scrapes the insides of your throat. Shaking, you stand and grip the back of one of the seats. Rows of hand carved wooden seats line each side of the car. The moonlight creeps in through the windows, providing a soft illumination as your eyes adjust to the darkness.
One foot in front of the other you decide there is nothing else to do but go forward. After all, curiosity only bested the cat right? Maybe someone could give you some kind of answer or provide some sort of illumination on the predicament you are in.
The next car was not much different. Rows of seats sat atop the magnificently embroidered carpet but there was not a single soul to be found. The whistle sounded again. It was beckoning you.
You move on to the next car, empty. And the next. Panic and confusion wrestle for control over your psyche as you push your way onto each successive car, only to find there is no one but you. The whistle howls again. You feel the train pull itself around a corner and propel itself faster down the tracks to a destination unknown to you.
Putting your hand on the cold metal door to progress to the next car you hesitate. Before you have the opportunity to open it fully you sense something, something waiting for you beyond that door. The car suffers the same shadows as the others, the blue hue coupled with the scattered moonlight barely illuminates the isle. Still you know he is there, you don't know how you know, but you know.
You timidly step forward, the heart inside your chest pounding as hard as it can in a futile attempt to shatter the rib cage that keeps it in place. The rows of seats are broken up in the middle of the car by two benches facing each other on opposing sides.
How many cars is this? How many cars are on this train? Where is it going? Who is this? How the hell did I get here!?
A thousand thoughts race through your mind as you take another step forward. The vague silhouette on one of the benches takes full form. He is leaning forward with his arms resting on his knees, a long dark robe covering his entire body.
“H – he – hello?”
You barely recognize the voice that comes from your mouth. It sounds like that of a frightened child than that of an adult. The figure doesn't answer, it doesn't move, it simply looks forward at the empty seat across from it. You take a few more cautious steps towards the center of the car. The whistle howls again.
With trepidation you slide into the seat across from the robed figure. No part of his body is visible, simply a filled out robe in a hue of blue.
“Hello?” You question again lifting your hand.
Nothing.
This is insane. What the hell is going on?!
“Insanity is life.”
You whip your head from side to side.
“Who said that? Who are you? How did you hear that?”
“Calm yourself.” The voice came from nowhere and everywhere. It's soft yet creepy hiss-like sound seemed to come from inside your ears, rather then the figure who sat across from you.
Who are you?
“You should speak rather than think.” The omnipotent voice instructed.
Your hands trembled. Every breath in this moving ice box seemed to pierce the inside of your lungs as if you inhaled burning embers.
“Wh – who are you?” Your mouth and lips were dry enough to crack. Every word was a struggle.
“That is of no concern.”
“Wha – where is – what is this place?” You ask.
“That answer you already know.” As your ears drowned in an audible sea, the figure itself never moved.
“I only know what it's called.”
“That's all that's needed.”
Panic was beginning to shatter itself into fear.
“Why am I here?” You raised your voice, almost demanding.
“The past is the past, it is of no concern now.”
You roll your eyes as an innate self-defense to the cryptic responses.
“Where are we going?” You ask. You look up and down the car in hopes of some sign of some other living being.
Nothing. No one.
“You don't have to look, there is no one else.”
“Impossible.” You shoot back.
But the only thing that greets your words is laughter. He spews a maniacal, twisted laugh that burns your eardrums and boroughs through the outer layers of your brain where it nestles and resides like a parasite.
Your first and only reaction is simple: run. Like a gazelle racing from a lion you bolt through the door as the whistle of the train once again tries to rip a hole through the night. Your vision blurs again as his parasitic laugh gnaws at you. Tumbling into seats, you stumble through car after car that you swear you've seen before. Your breathing gets faster and faster as desperation begins to take hold of you.
You crash into another door only to find a horrifyingly familiar sight.
No. . . No. . No. This can't –
“It is.”
You drop to your knees in a somber, defeated heap of nothingness.
“Why?” Your voice is barely a whisper against the wind outside.
The figure remains silent. It rises to its feet in a swift, noble motion and gracefully moved towards you. Staring at the ground the bottom of his robe sways into your vision and one final question enters your mind.
“Why are you here?”
For a brief second the night is silent.
“I'm here to bury you child.”
You close your eyes as the howl of the whistle tears in to the sky.
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Born and raised in New England, I am a senior at a Connecticut State University studying business, as well as a member of the English Club. I have yet to publish any work. But along with writing my other hobbies include jamming out to good rock music and diving into a good video game. My favorite books include: “Under the Dome”, “The Hunger Games” and “The Golden Compass”. |