Derailment

My train derails. Off of a bridge. From the inside, I cry and cry "Awe, fuck…" The lights, suddenly brighter. The inertia. I can feel my stomach falling faster than the fall, hoping for impact, not bracing for it like I wish I could. I would if only I wasn't in so much terrible shock.

I hope the driver is dead first, not some cardiac arrest from some old man. There's no one else to blame. Is it a newbie? Was it his or her first ride without a trainer to tell him how to handle turns and at what speed? Because we're all dead now.

Oh, what misfortune. Did I live too wrong? How did God decide this was the moment to crash a fucking train? And, selfishly, arrogantly, implausibly, why mine?

What do I have to explain at the gates of heaven? Sure, I'll have to account for my sins, “but I was murdered by a train operator, Mr. Saint Peter, Sir!”

Do we get a chance to atone in the afterlife? In full digression, there is perhaps purgatory. But I don't have much faith in it. I'll have to explain my porn stash, the years of addiction, the rejections I handed out at complete personal discretion.

That arrogance again.

Are we the damned...? Driver and passengers all? And what about this poor train? This beautiful beast that we trusted!

I hope it's not destroyed completely in some near-nuclear blast. I hope there are some survivors. I hope I'm not one of them. I'd be maimed permanently. No life to truly live. Years would go by and I'd marry the one girl who had enough pity to stay near my ghastly body.

Oh vey. Goodbye.