Chapter Text
Hollow thumping of wheels against the tracks reverberates throughout the train car, still only the second loudest sound. What takes first is the hallowed cry of your stomach, as if it's warning everyone within a mile radius of your near-starvation. Aching pounds your body over and over again, feeling like it might never stop. You fuss with your posture, looking for relief as you force the monotonous rumble of the train to fade into the background of your mind.
By now, choosing to take a two-day train ride to Chicago over a short flight seems stupid. You search for answers, trying to recall what made it sound so interesting, but the memory of booking the trip is hazy at best, and when you try to conjure it, it feels like tearing into a barely healed wound with a dull knife, sticky sadness oozing out.
Luxurious promises from travel blogs were grounded almost immediately.
Instead of smelling the flora and fauna of new places, you've spent most of the time trying not to notice the lingering stench of the snack cart hamburgers—the same hamburgers that have been the only food you could afford for two days.
Pitching, your stomach protests the thought of another.
Violent jostling wakes the little boy behind you, who had only been asleep for a few moments; the interruption causes him to wail the same monotone screech that had become oh-so-familiar during the trip. In response, you let out your own pathetic whine and continue ruminating on the combination of bile and anxiety resting in your stomach like a boulder.
Asking for help is bad enough, but now you'll be spending the next who-knows-how-long bearing the guilt from your friend’s generosity.
Life wasn't supposed to play out like this.
Lost in your head, the small rumbling nearly goes unnoticed. Shaking, your hands clamor through the limp pocket of your dingy sweatpants, the buzzing getting angrier with each passing second.
“Hey there," a warm voice vibrates, holding the last letter as if savoring the chance to talk to you. "I’m at the station…ish. Your train almost here, or what?”
Soft, fake leather connects with the back of your head as your body relaxes involuntarily at the sound. "Your legs feelin' a little tired from your long, hard day off?"
"Now that you mention it…" he trails off.
"I can ask the conductor for the ETA. I'd never want you to have to do something as exhausting as checking the arrival board at the station, sweetheart.” The nickname is sure to send him into a conniption.
A heavy sigh drifts from the speaker, "Why dontcha go ahead a give me a break, alright? I drive all the way to the yuppy side of the city, don't even make you take one bus, and you wanna get sassy before I even get to soften the blow with my favorite view?"
"Eddie-"
"I know, I know, 'Quit it with the Playboy attitude. You're not that pretty,'" Eddie mocks you with his favorite, shrill impression. "You know, you're not so nice to me."
Picking up on his usual drama, you roll your eyes. "Oh, here he goes, working himself up. Another one of your moods?" You chide, thankful for something else to focus on. "You're such a diva, I know the exact scrunched up little face you're making right now," you pause for a moment, "and now I know you're trying to relax it so you can pretend I was wrong."
"Where'd you hide the camera?"
"Nowhere, dork. I'm like one of those bomb sniffing dogs, highly trained."
Even the crinkled, static-filled sound of his chuckle is enough to erase some of the anxiety ballooning inside your chest.
"I'm ninety percent sure you shouldn't be talking about a bomb on a mode of public transportation."
A response gets trapped in your throat as you picture seeing Eddie for the first time since that horrible conversation. The memory of your blotchy, tear-stained face invites every insecurity in. Stains on your clothes and the residual feeling of greasy hair and skin deepen quickly, making you feel less than human. Your nails are bitten to nubs, the cuticles covered in scabs from picking. You're unshowered and hangry to a degree that's quickly becoming dangerous for others.
Dull pain pushes into your cheek as the phone pushes into it, trying to stay stabilized in your scramble to the bathroom.
Eddie is mid-argument with himself when you finally tune back in. “Oh my God, please just tell me where you're parked, okay?” The frustrated plea huffs out as you brace for the bathroom air.
In such a cramped space, the erratic sway of the train feels far more aggressive than it did in the stability of your seat, and it does nothing to help as you search desperately for anything to clean yourself up with, the contents of the bag getting churned over and over again.
Pain shoots through your arm, blinding and numb all at once, as the edge of the sink makes violent contact with your funny bone. Face wash spreads chaotically, turning your eyes bright red and stinging. Rough bristles accost your lips, teeth, gums, and anything unfortunate enough to be found in the crossfire of oral health, and you try to avoid thinking about how many times your hairbrush just slipped off the sink ledge and landed face down on the dirty floor.
By the time the small tube of mascara decides to show itself, the train begins to slow drastically, propelling you toward the mirror without warning. You crumple into the cold, dirty glass, smearing your hard work. Stained, crusty, and with irritated scleras, those are the first marks you'll make on your new life.