Tags
City, Fiction, Language, Literature, London, Underground, Writing
Trains catapult through the catacombs of London, travelling along an intricate pattern of multi-coloured string, before veering off to their secret corners of the city. The screeching sound of metal-upon-metal, the sound of repetition, reverberates off the tiled walls. Walls that were once glisteningly white – clinical in appearance – are now caked in layers of historic grime and fading posters of low budget Shakespeare plays.
Seas of suits flood the platform. They are black and grey, pinstripe and tweed; waves of suits anxiously checking bulky, metallic watches. One solitary girl stands apart. The fading Converse on her right foot hovers in mid-air, outlining the tracks of the train. She inches forward, eyes closed, her battered, black satchel jostled from her left shoulder. She is swimming against the current of this darkened sea – how much further until she reaches the shore? It will be peaceful there.
She opens her eyes and looks to the scattering of dusty, amber travel cards underfoot. What invisible barrier holds this sea of suits back? What is holding her back? She digs her nails into her palm, the glittery nail varnish chipped and ugly. It is no use. She can no longer visualise her oasis – her private beach of peace. The screeching sound storms down the tunnel once again, a metallic hurricane of noise.
10:26 am.
She sighs.
And boards the train.