Hi my name is Lilly, and you’re about to see me die about…. Nnnnnnnnnow.
Yep, there I am, running down the escalator—sorry mister—nearly knocking over an old lady and her baby. I’m yelling “shit-shit-shit” as I try to jump on the train before the door closes. They would be my last words. I hope my mother never finds that out. I suppose the ultimate lesson I learn is that a) appropriate footwear is important and b) never run to catch a freaking train. How I got this far in those damn heels I’ll never know. Fuck, I look like Wonder Woman! It’s a little impressive until…. Yeah… here we go.
Door closes on my arm. I can’t even cry for help, I’m just screaming over the whine of gears as the train pulls away, dragging me with it. Other people are waving at the driver to stop. That’s nice of them. It doesn’t work and the tunnel entrance looms closer; I’m about to be bisected by it.
I can never watch this part. You go ahead.
I hate that sound. It’s like a cow falling off a ten-story building.
Oh, NOW, he stops the train¬—stupid bastard. And the rest is all people shouting and ordering each other around until the ambulance comes. This part is pretty boring. Still, I can’t leave or go watch anything else. This is all there is. In about three hours, when the stretcher finally takes me away (in a black zipped-up bag) it’ll start over again.
A woman once told me I was a spiritual imprint. How she could talk to me, I don’t know, but she wasn’t the first person. Every now and then my fatal routine is a little different. There are people who weren’t there before watching me—not the me running, they’re watching the me that’s watching me. They sometimes ask me dumb questions: “what year is it,” “what’s my name,” “can I make a noise.” Other times they just look. Sometimes they scream and run away.
And then there’s you. I’m not sure what to make of you. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to tell anyone my story before. You’re different somehow.
So how do you like it? My eternal prison. Just a dimly-lit tunnel that smells of pee, the whine of passing trains, and every three hours… my own personal show.
I’ve never liked reruns.