Final Destination, in Vacuum

He was one of the lucky ones to get shoved into the train just before the doors slammed shut behind him, an inch off from his ears. The only way he could have survived standing in such an awkward position is that he does not move at all, with his knees slightly bended, chest forward and buttocks sticking out. It was rather an amusing pose if one would isolate him from the crowd, like in a photoshop software where you could trace along the outlines and just detach the subject from its surroundings, put it on a new drawing board; put it in vacuum.

As close as he is stuck to the other travelers' torsos as a consequence of boarding the train at this ungodly hour when everyone is released from work like bees from a hive, he felt isolated from them. As uneasy as it is to feel the hot breath of the overly obese man behind him whose abdomen constantly grinds against his arched-forward back, he felt quite serene. As numb as his fingers could get from clinging on too tightly to the handle bars before him and as shaky as his arms were from carrying a luggage that is too heavy for his skinny frame, he was oblivious to all these dreadfulness. It was as though he was in vacuum.

Growing up, he was never a muscular, active kid, raised by his single mother who had to carry the burden caring for him and his two sisters when their father left them for a lady younger and more vivacious than his quiet mother. He was 6 when his father left, and since then, he never got the chance to experience all the father-son moments just as his friends in school have with their fathers. He grew up isolated from his chirpy sisters; he grew up to be like his mother, silent; withdrawn. But he was happy within his own world.

The train sped at an alarming speed, occasionally stopping at stations to allow passengers to disembark. At the fourth station, the fat man alighted. He was relieved to have more space to move his sore limbs around. There was even sufficient room for him to sit down on the train floor, and so he did. From the side pocket of his large suitcase, the fished out a purse, the one with the head of a tiger stitched onto it, his 4th birthday present from his father. How he had loved tigers then.

He had money in it, 500 dollars to be exact; his 4 years' worth of savings from the odd jobs he took up with the homeless old people around his school. What a fine lad, they would say, soft-spoken and kind-hearted. He took out a hand-drawn route map from his jeans pocket, its paper already yellowing from the sleepless nights spent tracing his fingers over them, memorizing them with his eyes closed. He knows from all these memorizing that he would get down at the next station, walk 20 minutes north by the river and then take an interchange bus that would drive him to his destination.

The destination, a place so familiar from the visitations in his dreams, day and night; but yet so unfamiliar to him now. He froze, stared blankly ahead of him, unaware of the quizzical looks the other travelers were giving him, flinched back into reality, lowered his head, and smiled to himself. He kept away his purse and his treasured map with an "X" marked on the final destination, and released a sigh of relief. He was on an adventure, an adventure that only he knows of, to a place where he could live life away from himself. For the first time in his 20 years of life, he felt empowered.

"Final Destination in Vacuum"
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