The Old Man

(Content Warning: violence, murder, and implied suicidal ideation.)

The train chugged along through the mountain pass as Gregory gazed out the window through drowsy, bloodshot eyes, peering absently at the passing trees. The majesty of the Appalachian Mountains, their snow-capped peaks reaching into the endless expanse of blue sky, was lost on him. More than lost, it deepened his already present and all-consuming sorrow. How could something so beautiful deserve to exist when his own wife was taken from him? Was God so consumed in His work, so focused on manifesting such natural beauty, that He couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger to save her? Why, then, should he appreciate something that exists at her expense? Samantha would’ve loved to see this. She always wanted to visit the mountai-

Gregory felt a weight crash against him, pushing him against the window. “AH! What the-” he instinctively shoved back against the thing. That thing, as it turned out, happened to be an old man, which Gregory just forcibly propelled into the adjacent seats. He crashed into the opposite window and fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry!” Gregory stood to help, but the elder was already picking himself up.

“No need to trouble yourself, young man,” the old man said, brushing himself off and stumbling out into the aisle. “I should apologize: I’m not used to locomotive travel, you see, and the sway of the train knocked me off balance, resulting in my quite inelegant tumble into your seat.”

Gregory sat back down. “But, the train’s been moving in a straight line for the past five minu-”

“At-at-at! Let us not dwell on the trivialities! Life is far too short for such things!” The old man said. He then proceeded to sit down right next to him and stare him directly in the eyes. “So, tell me your life story.”

Gregory blinked. “...What?”

“Your life story. Regale me. All of it.”

“Wha- I- I’m sorry, who are you?”

“An old man.”

“Yeah, no shit. Look, just leave me alone. I’m not interested in whatever product you’re selling or religion you’re preaching.” Gregory turned back to the window, again looking upon the spitefully resplendent mountain range. Again, it mocked him. The peaks stared back at him, proudly showing off their magnificence in spite of his inner misery, as if there was nothing evil in the world. As if people weren’t dying every day. As if the love of his life wasn’t shot dead in front of him. He couldn’t go back home. How could he possibly look his son in the eyes after what happened? But then, where would he go? He chose the quickest way out of town, but the train was going to New York City. He had nothing there. Well, the buildings were quite tall. What if he just- the old man was still there, wasn’t he? Gregory turned to see the senior citizen still seated right next to him, staring at him expectantly.

“Look, I told you, I-”

“It wasn’t your fault, Gregory,” said the elder.

Darkness swallowed the cabin as the train passed into a tunnel. Gregory stood up. What did he say? Who the-

“Who the hell are you?” said Gregory.

“I told you, an ol-”

He grabbed the old man by his collar. “Don’t give me that bullshit! Who the hell are you!?”

The old man didn’t respond, the silence filled with the clacking of wheels against rails, which echoed through the tunnel. He merely stared back, and those eyes, they seemed to reveal a vast, incomprehensible wisdom that betrayed his disheveled appearance. They stared right through him, his oppressive, all-knowing gaze piercing through Gregory’s very soul and bearing witness to his most private secrets. Gregory let go and jumped back against the window. Light flooded in once again as the train exited the tunnel, illuminating the cabin and the old man in front of him. His eyes were normal again. Gregory glanced around, realizing no one else was here. Was the cabin always empty?

“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t pull that trigger,” the old man said. Gregory looked back to him. His eyes began to well up with tears.

“It is my fault. I grabbed Thomas and hid. I didn’t even try to save her! I just… watched! I watched as she was shot down like a dog!” It all came flooding back to him. The trip to the mall. The man with the gun. The shots ringing out and the cacophony of screams that followed, like some sort of macabre symphony. He had grabbed his son and fled, hiding in a storefront. Samantha had split off beforehand, perusing something else: she was too far away, he couldn’t have reached her! Could he have? He didn’t even try. The old man put a hand on his shoulder.

“You were protecting your son. You had no control: you shouldn’t blame yourself for your wife’s death,” he said. Gregory slapped his hand away.

“I was supposed to protect her, too!” he shouted, tears now streaming down his face. “What kind of man can’t protect his own wife!?”

“Listen-”

“NO!” Gregory shoved him aside, stepping out into the aisle and stomping away. He couldn’t listen to this anymore. Who did this old fool think he was? What did he know of losing a loved one? Of being a coward?

“Fleeing once again?”

“SHUT UP!” Gregory reached the door at the end of the cabin.

“Your son has just lost his mother. He shouldn’t have to lose his father, too,” the old man said. Gregory stopped, his knuckles turning white from gripping the door handle. He turned his head.

“I’m a failure. I don’t deserve to have a son,” he choked out, barely a whisper.

“You won’t if you walk through that door, but your son deserves to have a father. Who’s going to protect him if you’re gone?” asked the old man.

“Someone better than me. Someone who actually can.” Gregory pulled the handle, turning back to walk through.

“DAD!” a familiar voice cried out. Gregory whipped around. Thomas was right there, on the train. Where did he come from? The old man held him in place, gripping his arm tight. In the elder’s other hand was a gun. The same gun. “Where am I? Dad, what’s going on!?”

“Son!” Gregory looked at the old man. “What are you doing!? LET HIM GO!”

The old man kept his grip. “Since you no longer wish to raise your son, it seems only prudent for me to remove him entirely. Like mother, like son. It makes things easier for you, doesn’t it?” He leveled the gun toward Thomas’s head.

Gregory didn’t even think. He leapt forward, tackling the old man. The gun went off, the shot ringing out in the cabin and barely missing Thomas as he fell to the side. The window next to them shattered as both Gregory and the old man fell to the floor in a heap. His hands found their way around the elderly man’s neck.

“DON’T YOU LAY A HAND ON MY SON!” Gregory bellowed, tightening his grip on the old man’s throat. The old man remained calm. He just stared back, those eyes again peering into him with that same cosmic understanding, as if all that Gregory was, is, and ever will be was made plain before him. He spoke, his voice clear despite Gregory’s hands around his windpipe.

“See? You can protect your son. You’re far more worthy of being his father than you believe,” he said. Gregory froze, his brow furrowing. The old man should be choking; why isn’t he choking? Gregory blinked, and, suddenly, the old man was gone. He lost his balance and collapsed to the floor. Pushing himself back to his feet, Gregory’s eyes frantically scanned the cabin. No one just vanishes! Where the hell did he go? Who was he, and how did he know so much? How did his son even get here!? None of this made any sense! Gregory leaned against an adjacent seat, collecting his thoughts. Come to think of it, he couldn’t even remember boarding the train to begin with. He felt a tug on his shirt. He turned his head to see his son.

“Sir? I believe that to be your train,” Thomas said, his voice far deeper than it should be.

“Uh, what? Son?” Gregory said.

“Sir, wake up. Your train is here.”

“I don’t… what are you…”

“Wake up.”

Gregory opened his eyes. He lay on a bench. A train was pulling into the station, slowing to a stop as people gathered around him on the platform. That’s right, he remembered now. He had laid down for a moment to rest while we waited for the train.

“Sir, are you awake?” a voice said. Gregory turned to see a familiar old man standing by the bench. “That’s your train, is it not?”

Gregory rose to his feet, breathing in. He couldn’t run.

“No. No, it isn’t.” he said. His son needed him. Even if he couldn’t save his mother, he

wasn’t going to let the boy down. He’ll make it up to him, somehow: he’s going to make this right, and be the father Thomas needs. He turned and strode out of the train station.