The Note
By M. Howalt
It was the moment when the folded piece of paper fluttered to the ground that marked the beginning of our relationship. I picked it up and hurried after him, pushing my way past an elderly couple with a massive luggage trying to get onto the train.
“Excuse me?”
He turned, surprised, almost shocked. “What?”
“You … dropped this.”
“Did you read it yet?” he asked.
“No.” Why did it matter?
He smiled.
Someone commented that we were in the way of everybody else. It was the morning rush hour, and the platform was alive with people. We seemed to be the only ones standing still.
“You hold on to that,” he said. His voice was calm and smooth. It reminded me of a doctor trying to break the bad news gently. “And please remember there was nothing you could have done.”
“About what?”
He turned away and disappeared into the mass of moving bodies.
I unfolded the piece of paper.
“I’m sorry for the grief I cause you, but I can’t take it anymore,” it began, “I don’t know who you are, but when you read this, I will be gone, and all there is left of me will be a memory. Your memory.”
I looked up. A stranger had just left me a suicide letter. I frantically searched for him for what seemed like hours. More than once, I thought I saw him. It always turned out to be someone else. In the end, I would have to get back to the right platform and take a train to work.
“The 9.04 train is cancelled due to an accident,” the smooth voice in the speaker said. Everybody knew what it meant.
A man next to me was talking on his mobile phone. “Yeah, I’m going to be late,” he said, “some bloody idiot has jumped out in front of a train. Those people don’t think about anyone but themselves!”
“Well,” someone else remarked loudly, “At least chances are they won’t do it again.”
A very awkward silence followed.
I was clutching the letter. The panic had turned into something else.
I was caught somewhere between anger and curiosity. I had to get to know him.
- - -
M. Howalt holds a master's degree in British and American literature and likes to take pictures and draw. More importantly, there is an abundance of stories in Howalt's head, and most of them want to be told, which is why one novel is currently being written, another is in the revision process, and a lot of short fiction seems to spontaneously appear.
By M. Howalt
It was the moment when the folded piece of paper fluttered to the ground that marked the beginning of our relationship. I picked it up and hurried after him, pushing my way past an elderly couple with a massive luggage trying to get onto the train.
“Excuse me?”
He turned, surprised, almost shocked. “What?”
“You … dropped this.”
“Did you read it yet?” he asked.
“No.” Why did it matter?
He smiled.
Someone commented that we were in the way of everybody else. It was the morning rush hour, and the platform was alive with people. We seemed to be the only ones standing still.
“You hold on to that,” he said. His voice was calm and smooth. It reminded me of a doctor trying to break the bad news gently. “And please remember there was nothing you could have done.”
“About what?”
He turned away and disappeared into the mass of moving bodies.
I unfolded the piece of paper.
“I’m sorry for the grief I cause you, but I can’t take it anymore,” it began, “I don’t know who you are, but when you read this, I will be gone, and all there is left of me will be a memory. Your memory.”
I looked up. A stranger had just left me a suicide letter. I frantically searched for him for what seemed like hours. More than once, I thought I saw him. It always turned out to be someone else. In the end, I would have to get back to the right platform and take a train to work.
“The 9.04 train is cancelled due to an accident,” the smooth voice in the speaker said. Everybody knew what it meant.
A man next to me was talking on his mobile phone. “Yeah, I’m going to be late,” he said, “some bloody idiot has jumped out in front of a train. Those people don’t think about anyone but themselves!”
“Well,” someone else remarked loudly, “At least chances are they won’t do it again.”
A very awkward silence followed.
I was clutching the letter. The panic had turned into something else.
I was caught somewhere between anger and curiosity. I had to get to know him.
- - -
M. Howalt holds a master's degree in British and American literature and likes to take pictures and draw. More importantly, there is an abundance of stories in Howalt's head, and most of them want to be told, which is why one novel is currently being written, another is in the revision process, and a lot of short fiction seems to spontaneously appear.
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This is such a haunting and powerful piece. I'm sure it will stick in reader's memory for a long time.
Very well written.
Christi Corbett
Engaging rhythm and flow, and I am oddly uplifted at the end- which also seems like a beginning.
Loved this. Very haunting and bittersweet. Makes you think about how we should take a step back and think when we, as commuters hear that typical announcement, and our first reaction is annoyance...
Alannah
Wow, how powerful. It has a speed similar to the train - very fast. Nice job!