Wooden Velvet

Goodbye.

I intended to call it back before I boarded the train– but my steps, quicker than my tongue, allowed me no such satisfaction. Instead, I carry the word in my mind, not allowing it to sink into my heart, already heavy with the other words I did allow to sprout upon his weighted ears.

My eyes, blurry by the thought, linger to my hands, to which I intend to shift my weight. I should be pulled by the grip of my two pieces of luggage – each a soft ebony wood, detailed with rich red velvet, my favorite colors — a specially designed gift from my Father for my birthday, carved with my initials and all.

Designed and exported them just before he passed, it seemed like he knew I would have to travel back to him soon. They are my final chains to him, a weight I will happily be burdened by. But when I look down for them, I find nothing in my clutch except for my fingernails, dug deeply into my skin.

I recall placing them down for one final spin in Leo’s arms. A moment in which the world felt too fast to breathe, care, or think. I suppose, such ambitions, or lack thereof, must have carried from the daze that riddled me as he gently placed me back down upon the concrete.

Oh! I think, covering my mouth with my palm. Without the perfectly smooth ebony wood to hold, my hands have become sweaty and salty upon my lips. Oh! I hope my Leo has realized and will send them to me!

A feeling sinks in my stomach. One of both self-pity– to the notion that I have abandoned my Father’s final gift to me, intended for this very travel– and anxiety, knowing I am to travel, and arrive at my destination without anything to get by. I cannot decide which makes me more exposed as the train pinches along the track, stuttering me to the first seat across from the door. I am surprised I managed to stand for so long prior, though I suppose my heavy heart, mind, spirit, and blackened, tarred conscience would give any girl sturdy feet.

I press my black dress down over my knees, then cross my feet over. With no suitcase, my hands feel loose, as if they may fall off if I do not clutch them to the bustle of my skirt. So, I do, paying no mind to the soreness in my palms inflicted by my chained fingernails mere moments ago.

Without the peaks of velvet between the ebony cage to peer upon, nor the perfect etchings of my initials to dote upon, my eyes steady upon the train door. With no windows, no light shines on this sunny day. I squint to ensure myself a door even exists, and once I can see the thin line of the mechanics, I shut my eyes entirely, preferring the dream of my sunny day with Leo to this hollow truth.

We stand outside the station, both pieces of luggage in his hands. Thoughtfully, my dear offered to carry it from the car. Hesitant due to the very perplexities I find myself in now, I had assured him I could carry it, but he assured me I did not have to.

“You should not have to worry about your things, not when you have such a trip ahead of you.”

“But darling,” I insisted, reaching for the bags as he cleverly dodged them, “I do not mind, I’d rather be certain I have everything in order. Stress keeps my heart beating.”

He frowned, swinging my luggage behind his back, then kissing me on the forehead, “You keep my heart beating, what am I to do without you?”

Blushing, I give in to his whims, reaching for his tan face, “I suppose you will just have to keep me fondly in your heart.”

I link my arm in his, giving one more glance to ensure he has not dropped the luggage in his affection, then, satisfied, we walk into the bustle of the station, bidding the bright sun one final goodbye.

No, I pout, opening my eyes to stare back at the weak outline of the door. No, I did not give the sun a proper goodbye. I was in so much of a rush that I only cared for the human farewells. Oh! How I will miss you, my sun!

I turn to look down the car, hoping to find a window to gaze out of and give the sun a proper goodbye, but before I can, I make unexpected eyes with a young woman holding a practically newborn baby. The baby rests, the eyelids folded over with the most voluminous lashes– a smile upon its pale face. The woman’s eyes are wide open, and her lips are thinly pursed.

“How do you do?” I ask, hoping to supplement true sunshine with a conversation with a fellow woman, it has been too long since my marriage that I have had such opportunities to socialize.

Leo and I have also been trying for a child for so long, I expect this woman, comfortable enough to travel with such a young, delicate baby, should have some entrancing guidances.

The woman shakes her head, lips still pursed, her eyes still wide, “Shh,” she hisses, “We should let her rest in peace,” she whispers, gently placing the baby down in a bassinet beside her I had not noticed before. It is a soft, pale wood on the outside, and a plush pink decorated with lace inside.

After a final look at her baby, she allows her pursed lips to fold into a half-smile, “Such a young beauty,” she says, inching closer to me, a gliding her red-gloved finger through my dark hair, “What is a thing like you doing on a train like this?”

“I am visiting my father, or I suppose… oh well, he has just passed. I missed the funeral due to illness. But I received word that there is a lovely burial site, if I should like to visit. I intend to visit, his grave, I mean.”

She pouts, “Oh, you poor dear, so much loss to your family. You must be ridden with guilt.”

I nod, though I am unsure why. My sickness is surely valid for my absence; surely my father and surely my family would understand.

“Where are you off to?” I interject her wandering eyes, and my wandering thoughts.

“Oh! Well, I’m not sure I know. My husband bought our tickets, but I am told my stop is coming soon.

She rises from the seat, “Maybe we will end up in the same spot. Or perhaps, if we all get separated, could I ask that a young woman, so full of whim, care for my baby?”

I bunch my fingers through my skirt again, “Surely you will not get separated from your baby!”

Her eyes, still wide and empty, drop to her shoes, then to mine, then to my eyes, heavy and teary-eyed, “You have such good faith in the world. What a marvelously hopeful light you shine upon the world.”

With a whistle of a train stop, a conductor approaches, pointing to the door. I squint to see that it has, in fact, opened. The world, strangely darkened outside, calls for me to peer into a crowd I can hear but not see, but when I try, the conductor shakes his head, pulling me back against my seat, “This is not your stop, dear.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” I smile, dropping the bushel of my skirt, “But is this the mother’s stop?”

The conductor skews his head, “What mother?”

And when I turn my head, the mother…

Mother?

I have a faint memory of red velvet caressing a deep brown. There was someone here, I am certain.

“Red and Ebony,” I whisper into my hand.

The conductor smiles, “Your luggage, yes,” he smiles, “We received word, your family will have it for you when you arrive.”

I smile, closing my eyes again, “Thank you.”

I am uncertain of his response, as I fall into a lovely slumber.

When I awaken, I do not awaken at all. I am stuck in a daydream where Leo sits beside me, holding my luggage.

“My darling,” he says, placing the luggage between us and leaning over to give me a kiss, “Oh, how I miss you already!”

His eyes have welled with tears, but he dares not cry. I have never seen my darling sombre. Even when I was so ill, ridden by the self-pity and loathing of missing my Father’s final resting, even when I was cruel and tempered by the coldness of the world and the hotness of my anger, he stayed by my side with a smile.

“Oh my dearest,” I smile, kissing his salty lips, “Do not cry.”

“I should have come with you,” he says with trembled lips.

I clear his tears away, then kiss him again. When our lips separate, I am eager to beg him to join me on my journey, to meet me a few stops ahead. But when I open my mouth, my heart beats upon my tongue, “No!” I screech, “This is a journey you need not yet make. It is a waste of the precious time you have.”

He shakes his head, “For what, my work, my passions, my savings? Why, it all means nothing without you beside me.”

“My dearest, we will see each other again soon.”

“Yes,” Leo smiles, drearily, picking up the luggage, and kneeling before me, “I will count the days.”

“Do not rush them, my dear,” I kiss his forehead. His hair smells like soot, and when I release my lips, I find them coated in a dark ash. “We are only one train ride away.”

He steadies his grip on my luggage, “I love you.”

Before I can respond, the train hits a bump on the track, and I bounce forward in the seat. After my head smacks my knees, I look up to find my dearest gone.

Staring at my empty hands, I do not even notice the stranger approach me, sliding into the seat right beside mine.

“How do you do?” a gruff voice says, turning his legs so that they touch mine.

Startled, I put my hands to my lips. When I peer over them, I see an older gentleman with deep brown eyes. He wears a suit of tweed and a tie of cranberry. Thick-rimmed glasses sit on the tip of his nose, so close to falling off, I must fight every instinct not to push them back.

“I am well,” I say hesitantly, crossing my legs over each other, “How do you do?”

“Why! No one has ever asked me that!” He says, licking his lips, and removing his cap.

“Ever?” I say astonished, “Surely not ever?”

“Oh, well, not on this train,” he says, pinching his nose and tipping his glasses even further.

My eyes light up, and he must notice, because he takes advantage, moving closer to me.

“You’ve boarded this train before?”

“Why yes, I’ve been up and down the line so many times. I suppose I never knew what the world wants from me, so I just keep trying.”

“Why, that's wonderful!” I clap my hands together, “Could you tell me if there is a window? Oh! How I’d love to see the sun.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” the man winks, just as the conductor walks in.

“Mr. Morrison!” The man yells, blowing a whistle between his fingers, “We told you you are not permitted into this car!”

“Oh! I say, jumping forward, intending to stand but finding my crossed legs too confused to try, “He’s no bother.”

“Not yet, Miss.” The conductor shakes his head, “But now that he has stolen your ticket–”

“My ticket?” I gasp, “He does not have–” but when I check the front pocket of my coat, I find my ticket gone, “Oh, dear… sir, that is very unkind.”

Mr. Morrison laughs, handing my ticket back to me, “These young women,” he says, turning to the conductor, “They are just too good for this world, aren’t they?”

The conductor shakes his head, “Or perhaps you are just too cruel. Apologies, miss.” The conductor says, grabbing the old man and dragging him out of the cart, “Get some rest, your stop will be very soon!”

And as if on command, my eyes become heavy, and my crossed legs unwind, as my torso drops to the soft red seats of the train.

I do not dream of my Leo. In fact, I dream of nothing but darkness. Strangely comforting, I sit in the empty, a smile on my face. But the more I sit, the more my eyes adjust. When I look just a little closer, I see that thin line of the drain door. Curious and my ambitions wild, I jump up, racing for the door. But just as I get close enough, the door pulls away. Furious in a way of purpose, I continue to race after the door, each time I lose it, pushing me a little closer.

With a primal scream, I extend my hand, and there, just by my fingertips, I am able to touch that thin line, and when I do, the door spins, erupting the dark world in a bright light. As my eyes blacken and the world seems like pointillism, I slowly piece together that before me is a mirror, reflecting my rapid blinking and panting lips.

Finally settled upon my own eyes, I come to realize I am paler than usual. My lips are black like ash, and my eyes are drooping. My skin feels detached from my body, as if I could step out of it like a fine-tailored gown.

My gown!

I peer down further still, and there, within the centre of my chest, a pool of dark blood. I stumble backwards in horror, but the mirror moves closer. I feel my dress, and when I release my hand from it, it is coated in thick red. I wipe my hand through my hair, then down my face, trying, but failing to pull my face away from the mirror.

The whistle blows.

My eyes peel open, and startled by the red of the seat, I sit up with such urgency, the conductor stumbles backwards, “Miss,” he says with a smile, “This is your stop, do not fret about the journey, I am certain you will have a lovely time here.”

He ushers me to the door, which no longer appears so dark, so impossible. Now, it is boarded with a ring of bright white light.

“Go on,” he ushers me, tapping a button on the side of the door, revealing a bright light.

And before the second whistle can blow, my lips move quicker them my feet, as I stare at the blinding white light, “Hello?”

“Hello, my beautiful daughter. Thank you for sending my luggage.”