End of the Line

Angry drivers beat their horns, frustrated by slow-moving traffic and the stubbornness of docile pedestrians on a busy street in suburbia. A mosaic of jackets, trousers, skirts, trainers, high heels, coats, different races and various lengths of hair, has come to life once more, yielding an ensemble of synchronised chaos. Many are already on their phones, talking or sending messages to who knows who and where, others hypnotised by the mass of concrete beneath them as they make their way to their various places of work.
Monday morning. Busy. Trance-like.

In the midst of it all is a middle-aged man; white shirt, black jeans, corduroy jacket and white trainers; a personification of today’s working adult. He’s been rooted to the ground at the edge of a crossing for some minutes. Despite the traffic lights changing from green to red to green to red again several times, he doesn’t move. The train station he walks to every morning is on the other side, waiting for his catatonic entry. He knows he should cross over but just… can’t. For some reason, it all seems so pointless. Why go on when everything has already come crashing down? His job, his house, the love of his life; he’s lost it all. A future drenched in the same coat of suffering and loss as the present. Turmoil. Depression. Exasperation. Nothingness. Pointlessness. He’s surprised he’s gone on for this long. Yet another interview. What was he thinking? That things would somehow miraculously get better? No more. Time to face reality. Things will never get better. Not for him anyway.

As though hit by the raging force of a thousand bolts of lightening, his mind is suddenly clear; devoid of the hope of hanging on. It’s clear what he must do to end the pain once and for all. The truth has been screaming at him for several months. Today he’s ready to listen and accept his reality. Everything comes to an end, and this is his. The lights are red again, and finally he steps onto the road, in no doubt about his destination. Once on the other side, he turns around to glance at his neighbourhood one last time. People going about their daily business, living in a perennial state of anxiety and worry; unsure of what will happen next. He turns forward again and resumes his journey, weighed down with grief, loss, and suffering like so many others. But at least he knows what to do; how to end it once and for all.

Standing on the platform at the train station some minutes later, a tear-drop saunters down his right cheek as he remembers the demise of the woman he loved like no other. The brightest of all shining stars, ravaged by the heartless clutches of cancer. A cauldron of life and energy reduced to skin and bones in the space of six months. What kind of God could allow the biggest and most loving heart of all to be so cruelly crushed? The morning of the fifteenth of June. Those beautiful eyes closed and never opened again. Gone before her time. The moment he realised whatever God was up there must have veins of ice. Uncaring. Cold. Heartless.

He begins to inch forward as the train approaches, determined to time it just right. His heart beats faster in anticipation of being released from life’s tortuous prison. He will jump at the count of five – one, two, three, four… “Sorry, do you know if this train is going to Victoria?” comes a voice beside him.


“Err, sorry?” he says, wondering why the woman chose him to ask. Of all the people on the platform, why him? Unable to hide his frustration, he replies, “No, I don’t.”

“Any idea where it’s going?”

“Honestly, I really have no idea where it’s going. If you don’t mind, I…”

“Oh, that’s odd.”

“Sorry?”

“I said that’s odd.”

“What is?”

“That you have no idea where it’s going, and yet you seem in a hurry to get on it.”

“I’m just…sorry, I really must go,” he says, turning to walk away. He can’t even end his own life in peace. Of all the people to ask, why him?

“I’m Jessica by the way.”

Out of politeness, he turns back to her, hoping to smile, say hello and then turn around and make his exit. She’s a slim black lady, average height. Pretty. Incredible searching eyes.

“Nice to meet you, Jessica. I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”

“That’s okay, don’t worry about it. It’s just….”

“What?”

“Well, a few seconds ago, you were about to get on this train, and now you’re…not. Where are you going?”

“Look, I’m…to be honest I really don’t know anymore. Just know I need to go. Away from here.”

With a gentle smile she turns to face him, her eyes searching his soul. He’s taken aback, but strangely comforted.

“I used to be like that. Always wanting to be everywhere and nowhere all at once. One minute wanting to do something and the next wanting to crawl under a big immovable rock, never to be seen again. I often wanted it all to end after I found out.”

“Wanted what to end?”

“Life. I didn’t want to be here anymore. Once I found out how far it had spread, I knew there would only be one result, so why wait for the inevitable?”

“What had spread?”

“Cancer. I had…have cancer. They gave me twelve months. At first, I was in shock, then spent several weeks in mourning, and after that I thought, ‘fuck it, why wait for it to slowly destroy me when I can be the one in control? That’s when I decided I would end my life and not cancer. I planned it perfectly. Rented a hotel room with a big wooden beam in the middle, got a solid rope, and vodka and pills for courage.”

“So, what happened? I mean, why are you still…” He’s unable to complete his sentence. He can’t believe he’s having a conversation about suicide with a stranger on the platform of a train station. How did she know he was about to take his own life?

“Strangest thing. I got a call from one of those phone customer service people. At first, I was like, ‘yes, yes, everything is fine with your service, and no I’m not interested in any new offers, but then she said something.”

“What?”

“Out of the blue she said, ‘We’re all connected in some way or another.’’’

“I don’t understand. Why did that affect you?”

“Well, it made me realise that I’d been keeping all my thoughts and feelings to myself – anger, sadness, feelings of hopelessness, the unfairness of it all. I’d kept it all in, and it was destroying me. I wanted the voices to stop. That was why I wanted to die. I desperately wanted the voices in my head to stop.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“I needed to let it all out, you see. Needed to talk to those close to me; let them know how I was feeling, the thoughts raging in my head.”

“Did it help?”

“I’m still here aren’t I?” she replies, laughing a little.  “I mean, I’m still going to die, in roughly four months in-fact, but talking to those close to me made me realise that it’s possible to keep going and still enjoy some incredible moments – laughter, love, kindness, crazy adventures. Don’t get me wrong, it still sucks, life I mean; still sucks that I’m going to die. Not a day goes by without me crying at some point, but…I’ve also experienced some moments that I wouldn’t swap for anything.”

A long silence follows, as he ponders her words. He has kept everything to himself for so long; allowing negative thoughts to build seemingly impenetrable fortresses as they freely roam in his mind. Not once has he mentioned his emotional anguish to anyone; fearing he would look weak or be judged in some way. And yet, here is this perfect stranger bearing her all to him as if they’re joined at the hip. She knows she’ll soon be gone, and yet here she is, saving him from himself.

“Right, here’s my train,” she says, turning to him one more time. The radiance of her smile lights a candle of hope in his heart.

“So, what now?” he asks.

“Talk to someone, anyone, everyone. Let it all out. And remember, this is not our real home. We are but passengers passing through the night.” She gives him a hug. A strange thing to do to someone you’ve only just met, but despite his initial reluctance, he hugs her back.



On his way back home from work, some five years later, the same gentleman is standing by the roadside, waiting for the traffic lights to go red. Exhausted as a result of a hard day’s work, the thought of cooking dinner fills him with trepidation. He takes his phone out of his pocket and makes a call. “Darling, fancy a takeaway? I’m too knackered to make anything, and I’m sure you’re even more shagged out than I am.”

“You read my mind, my wonderful hubby,” comes a voice from the phone.

“Great! Indian or Chinese?”

“Indian please, hon.”

“Sorted.”

As he puts his phone back in his jacket pocket, he notices a tall gentleman to his right, staring at the pavement. Barely holding his briefcase with the tip of his middle finger, he seems bereft of hope. It’s a look the man knows only too well. An ashen face of someone who has reached the end of himself. He wants to say something to him, encourage him not to give up; tell him his own story, but he’s afraid of being intrusive. All of a sudden, there she is, standing on the opposite side, her smile as radiant as ever. But how? Shouldn’t she be dead? She hasn’t aged, and certainly doesn’t look any sicker; in-fact, she’s a picture of health. She smiles at him, then nods in the direction of the crest-fallen gentleman, giving him the courage to follow his instincts.

“Any idea where the nearest Indian takeaway is by any chance?” he asks.

“I…to be honest, eating is the last thing on my mind right now,” he replies.

“Really? Why’s that?” He’s not at all surprised by his reply. He glances across the road to thank his friend, but she’s no longer there. He looks left, then right…nothing. Gone, as though she was never there.