The Late Train By Peter Naughton
Doreen looked down the length of the tunnel hoping to see some faint glimmer, but there was nothing. She glanced down at her watch. -11:58- The train was already well beyond late and the likelihood that it wasn’t coming at all throbbed at her temples like a nagging headache. She shivered and pulled her coat tighter around her, leaning over and looking again for any sign of light in the distance. There was a clattering behind her and she wheeled around to see a rat scuttle out of a trash can and disappear down into the depths of the tracks. For a moment she couldn’t move or breathe and had to fight the grayness pushing in at the periphery of her vision. She wondered what these situations felt like to people whose imaginations weren’t wired to see every elongated shadow or fluttering piece of trash as a potential threat waiting to rape and murder them. Even now she was picturing her bruised and broken body being hefted onto the wooden ties by some faceless, hulking monster who would leave her there to die, assuming the delayed 11:30 didn’t come around to do her in first. The platform was empty, which simultaneously made her feel both better and worse. The lack of other people waiting for the train only added to the probability that she had missed it, and there wouldn’t be another one on that line until tomorrow morning. Still, a part of her was glad that she was alone. Whenever she shared the platform with anyone else her mind automatically turned them into assailants. She hated how pervasive and consuming her paranoia had become. It was a symptom of the anxiety that had plagued her since childhood, feelings that had only grown greater over the years. Both her doctor and therapist had recommended medications to help quell these feelings, but the idea of taking something that might make her sedate or unaware only heightened her sense of dread. As much as her irrational fears pained her, not to mention the comments from friends and family about her odd behavior, she needed to