If I wasn't making my own difficult way down the sidewalk in broad daylight, I could swear that I was surrounded by concrete, metal and plastic instead.
Chimes echo overhead, and an emotionless voice announces that my end shall arrive, on schedule, in so many minutes.
And something about that voice sounds familiar, and personally so. But there I go again, trying to deny the obvious and the imminent. 'Course it's my voice. I don't know what anybody else's sounds like, either because I've forgotten or because I never knew, never realised, never paid enough attention, was never shown...the possibilites go on.
A kink in the pavement staggers me, but I don't fall over completely. I just hurt. So I stop to gather myself before I dissipate like fog as the sun rises, vainly scrabbling at the transparent whisps of me(him) in an effort to exist just that little longer.
I'm catching my breath, I shake my head to try and clear the fog that clouds there itself. I would like to see the sun behind it again, but everyone who sees me knows that it's not going to happen.
Something catches my eye, and I freeze. The fog stays, maybe it thickens that tiny bit more. The emotionless voice calls out again, "...arriving in...." I don't catch all of it. It's captured my attention too much and, like the human I am, I can't help but be curious, can't help but satisfy that curiousity.
I take a step off the pavement, onto the grass. It bends beneath my feet, but it's healthy, and that's nice. I haven't felt something healthy like that for a good while. So I take another fear-ridden step, anticipating that minute elation, the sensation from under me.
Step after step takes me to something that doesn't quite belong there. Amidst the grass, it's grey, it sticks up. It knows it doesn't belong, but it fights it. I fall to my knees, and not because I'm making a scene for the cameras. From the second I walked outside today, I knew I'd fall sooner or later.
My descent brings me closer, close enough to read the words brutally scratched into the surface of the grey thing. The fog is still there, so I can't read it as well as I once could. But I know well enough what it says.
The story of everybody's life, the triptych of humanity. I never thought I'd see my own. At least, not before my time. But here it is.
Inside me, the sun rises. The fog gathers itself, accumulates and drips out, dampening the earth below my face as insignificantly as I've affected the Earth beneath my feet.
The sunshine blinds, but my eyes adjust, and I can see again.
"...number 79D arriving, please board..."
I can believe this, but I hate it. And I relish the hate, I haven't felt passion since...since before I forgot everything.
I'm kneeling before my very own grave. I'm sitting in the station, twiddling my withered, shaking thumbs with nothing better to do than hang onto the voice's every last word as my death approaches.
I hate this. A grave is for the dead, and here I am, hating it. It's like every other human breathing the very same air I do has no regard for any other human breathing the same air they do. All jostling for room, elbowing savagely through the masses just to rise to the front for those few, imagined seconds before being dragged back into the cesspool. All eagerly anticipating the next death of the unknown man, the one who can't remember loving so can't possibly have lived!
They can't wait for me to leave.