Roses At Dawn

The town is restless tonight. Damsels in distress lurk the square, and I shift my view towards drastic choices. The wind softly blows into the faces of careless passers-by. Furthermore, it forces my mind into fear. Fog arose. And yet, here I am, stumbling like a doe back into my worst and deepest nightmare, and standing right into the gazes of hunger and thirst. It’s getting under my skin, all the mist.

Our train stops–this place is filled to the brim with salty and disgraceful wolves. Their only aim is marking or turning everyone to one of theirs. And I fell victim to their assaults years ago. One moment you look away, the other you’re bitten. In Northern Maine, you have to always watch your back–even if you’re at home. I coughed, watching the bustling cabins soon empty. 

A stair led to the cement platform. Every step counted towards the exit, as I held my bags tightly. A scent flowed into the empty air of the station. Sugary and warm—hot chocolate. My face wrinkled as I took a few steps further. And so, spiralling with thoughts towards the warm milk infused with cocoa, I realise that I’m all alone. A tiny and almost falling-to-the-ground drinks stand culprits towards my aching throat; but I’m here with other business.  

Plenty of tourists are splattered across the deck, buying a drink so childish, yet so cozy that even I wanted to buy it. It’s fooling us. Everything here fools us. 

And my mouth is watery. Yet I had a quick solution to a big temptation—a thermos with warm tea inside. Forest fruit aroma, sweet but bitter. I drink a bit; it warms me up just like a hot cocoa would. And so, I forgot entirely about staying in line for a hot cocoa. 

Yet there was another problem—my growling stomach that attracted sights. But who cares anyway? It’s just a hungry guy in a train station. 

The two sets of eyes prying at me from somewhere around the corner didn’t make my skin crawl, nor did they set fireworks in my mind. It wasn’t an ordeal. 

A few loud and saddening blues coming from a band that still sings around here for extra pennies caught my eye. They wore their traditional outfits, had guitars… A truly fascinating commitment. 

Yet today I only put a few bucks into their hat, smiled, and walked away, arranging my cosmetic glasses. I stepped even further from the train that was about to leave, smiling softly at myself. Is this the proper smile? My hands hovered into the jean pocket, searching for the phone hastily. A loud and distant “choo” as the train left again. And, as it dashed on the rails, I found my phone shoved into my deep pocket. 

I changed the song it played—yet that melody is interrupted since I got off the train by my mom, who’s been texting me non-stop. I put my earbuds back into their case; their microphone sucks. Dialling the number and awaiting a reply, it started to get cold. Colder than it should be. 

“Hi, mama,” greeting her politely as my hands lurk for a cigarette. 

“Evan, don’t you know replying?” She’s speaking in a broken English accent—a slam on the other line. “I’ve been trying to ask you where you are; the enchiladas waited all day for you.” 

I smiled, walking down towards the exit. “Sorry, sorry!” 

 “Where are you?” She quickly asked, slamming something again.

“Just arrived at the platform,” I lit my cigarette, glancing towards the hot chocolate hut again. “But…” I almost froze as it got colder. “Very cold here,” I quickly turned my head away. “And what are you doing?”

“Ah!” exclaiming, as she slammed again. “Just cooking you something again.” 

“Alright,” I took a glance towards the hot cocoa hut again. “I’ll call you later, bye mama!” hanging up–my chest tightened, and I breathed heavily. 

A man stood stiff by the hut, next to the line. A child was standing right beside him, circling his arm–yet he didn’t stare at that kid. He was staring at me. He was holding his wallet, and he seemed to be bothered by the screeches and yells of other children. I tried to look away, but every yell silenced. Every screech stopped. The kid that stood right beside him then rocked back and forth, slowly shifting its glance at me too. 

Guts clenched at the pressure of scaredy chains strangling my neck. He’s familiar to me, but we stared at each other as if we’d be more than strangers. The man and I made eye contact–his irises turned bright red, and everything around stiffened in silence. Seconds passed by and my wonder grew. I wanted to approach him, ask him something, but rationality got the best of me. Huffing, I desired to look away, yet was too thrilled to just dart my sight ahead of my road. My skin turned itself from the inside out, and my cheeks burnt.

And suddenly it all stopped.

Why?

He was the first to shift his glance. It was their turn to order a drink, and the kid got impatient. The blues sprouted again in my ears, and the joyous yells of kids started to spark as the other train arrived. And it looked like the weather suddenly changed. I felt way warmer than before–odd enough. I opened my earbuds’ case and put them in my ear, looking away from the two. It’s a relief that it stopped. 

I tapped the play button on my phone and dashed towards the exit gates. The train station has a huge and metallic fence around its territory. It’s said that it keeps the werewolves away, but it seems to be ineffective. Well, it didn’t manage to hold me at a fair distance. I still think that he’s staring at me; I feel it. 

Glancing behind me, the pair of red eyes was still lurking. Yet this time, they hid back into the train station’s brochure that he’s now holding. The child he’s with hugged his leg–I had no intent of being weird, but there surely is something off about that man. And it’s in my job description to keep the country safe.

“Herrera!” 

My family name. Taking out one of the earbuds, I spotted the town’s overworked sheriff–Adrian White. I smiled at him; we were approaching each other. He was holding a white rose bouquet in his arms. They’re pretty. “For-” my words are interrupted by a veiling and obnoxious sound. My eyes widen–the roses are stained red now. 

“Sir!?” I yell out, checking if he’s still alive.

 I picked up one rose. Each petal has a splatter of blood. And I jumped to a quick conclusion: he was shot by one of the mafiadons lurking in these surroundings. And I am next. I threw the rose on the ground, then tried to lift his body. He was still breathing and cursing under his breath. Fuck.  

Everyone around was panicking. And they had a reason–their only saviour would be stuck to resting in a hospital bed for a good while. 

I carried him towards the metallic gates. When I reached the top, I took a peek to see if any of them were open. But they were all locked. “What?” I mumbled to myself. 

I sigh. 

“Last for me, White,” whispering as I set him down near the gate. This is horrid.