As the sound of the inbound passenger train increased in intensity, I felt torn between pulling Amy from it’s path and joining her in her silent, somber vigil. There were sounds of night owls in the distance, a terrorizing lament for understanding. I knew who Amy was, her role had been set in my life from the minute she stole my Caramel Macchiato. My own identity? I still wasn’t sure.
Was I really the boy who’d stolen my boss’s car, driven fifteen miles and then turned around with a head full of guilt? Or was I the son who’d walked out on my mother, five days into her latest attempt at sobriety?
No. I was just a man, standing in front of a train. Waiting for a girl, who was waiting for death.
There is nothing quite like being seventeen.