Work Text:
Ninety-three percent of deaths on the London Rail are suicides.
Sure, there’s the occasional accident and plenty of injuries, but, the ones who die almost always intend to. People willingly hurl themselves in front of thousand-ton pieces of metal faster than a car.
What a way to go.
I often wonder myself why you would choose to end your life that way. It’s not very private and I can’t imagine how selfish you would have to be to make so many people witness such a thing.
I’ve never seen it happen. For that, I consider myself lucky. Most people whom I’ve broached the subject to have experienced it, though. The topic is spoken about so nonchalantly; It’s water-cooler chit-chat. Where people trade stories of times they’ve personally seen it happen, the ones who do it without warning, who make a scene, the funny ones, the ones who tried and survived. No matter how long I’ve lived here, I never understand why.
. . .
I’m startled from my thoughts by a man covered in grime, with grease clinging to his hair that reflects the yellow light of the streetlamps above us. His teeth—Well the ones he still has— are of a similar colour and caked with tartar.
“Ya got any spare change mate?” He grumbles.
I hesitate. I have a few notes on me, but he’ll probably use the money for drugs.
“Uhm… I don’t, but here, you can have my sandwich.” It’s my lunch but I can grab something from a vending machine to tide me over till I get to the studio. He needs it more than I do. I could count his ribs under the layers of dirt-smeared against his chest if I tried hard enough.
“I have other food.” I lie when he gives me a guilty look. I can’t imagine being so poor you feel guilty taking a sandwich from someone. My footsteps sound out around the empty alley as I continue, sucking a breath of smog deep into my lungs and spewing it back out. When I lived in Nottingham my lungs were perfectly healthy, but after years of gulping down breaths filled with pollution, I have the lungs of a smoker and I’ve never held a cigarette in my life.
The familiar scent of human defecation fills my nostrils and I gag. The underground, always the same. I get corralled into the swarm of humans attempting to get down to the platform their train is on, their sweaty body’s knocking into mine. I emerge from the mob and past the ticket booth, further down reach I my platform, and settle against a poll, letting my gaze drift down to two rodents near, my feet. I can’t be sure if the rats are fucking or trying to kill each other, suppose it’s not that different.
A man dressed in a business suit catches my eye, he’s pacing along the barriers and occasionally peering through the scratched plastic occasionally.
Low rumbling indicates the rapidly approaching train. The man drops his briefcase and begins to climb the barriers.
“Stop! What are you doing?!” I cry out as I push my legs as hard as I possibly can, trying to reach him.
Time stops.
He makes eye contact with me as he turns around and falls backward.
I watch.
I stand there and I watch as his body collides with the train.
“We’ve had one under.”
A cacophony of groans follows the announcement. I look to my left and see a woman rolling her eyes and turning back to her phone. There’s a man beside her who checks his watch and tugs at his hair roughly. To my right people are just as unbothered.
Are they so disconnected from humanity; Disconnected from the human experience, that when they find out someone can’t go on any longer the only response they have is worrying about being late.
I bring a trembling hand to my cheek, hot tears damping my face.