The Final Stop
Helen Liu
She sits alone in the train car, hands clasped in her lap. Late afternoon sunlight streams through the window, just bright enough to make her squint; endless fields of green roll by outside. She doesn’t know when she’d boarded this train, or where she’s going. Just that the car is impossibly clean, so unlike the subway she grew up riding; just that the complete absence of passengers unnerves her. There’s nobody jostling her shoulder, no buzzing crowds, no chime followed by that so-familiar mechanical voice, saying, “Our next stop is…” It had all been so exhausting. Eyes sliding half-shut, she lets her head fall back against her seat. She might not know where she is, but at least here, she has peace and quiet. As if on cue, the door linking her car to the next slides open. A youth dressed entirely in black steps in and sprawls in a seat opposite her, floppy hair shading his face so that all she can see is his razor grin. He’s maybe ten, twenty years younger than her, and to her, it seems he lounges with all the carelessness in the world. “Hello,” she tries. Her voice is scratchy, so she clears her throat and starts over. “Hello. Do you know where we’re going?” “Where do you think we’re going?” he says lazily, not moving from his slumped position.
She forces a smile. “I’m sorry, I really don’t know.”
He shrugs and points towards the horizon, where the sun is beginning to set. “Here, there, everywhere. It doesn’t matter where we’re going; it’s the final stop, anyways.” Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and suddenly his eyes, impossibly black, are flashing. “What’s the last thing you remember?” 8
