Today’s piece is inspired by Sarajevo: The Lonely Tram by Oleg Podzorov.
The streetcar was coming close. I couldn’t see it in the fog but buried under the sound of cars and passing buses I could hear it sliding on the greased rails. I pulled my travel bag close, feeling the weight of it brushing against my leg. It was time to go, time to run, time to not look back. The rail would take me to the college campus, and there a bus that would take me across the lake. From there, I didn’t have any plans. It was just time to leave this city, this haunted place.
Time to leave him.
I think my hose might still have blood on them. I left so quickly I didn’t bother to change them. He’d come in drunk and I could feel his hot wet breath on my neck. I was working late to finish the piece that would fund the apartment and his drinking another month. He grabbed, I screamed, he struck, I swung my sketch tablet against him, and he screamed. He tried to grab for me and I hit him again. And again. And again. I broke the tablet. I broke him.
The streetcar was visible in the fog, inching closer and closer to the platform I waited on. It looked empty except for the driver. The rest of the sounds of the city seemed to fade as I watched it approach.
In my panic I packed my travel bag in a blind rush. With what, I don’t remember. I used his phone to dial 9-1-1 and left it next to him as I left. I don’t know if he was alive, but I don’t care. I just needed to go. To leave.
It screeched a little as the streetcar stopped nearly perfectly in front of me. The driver wasn’t what I expected. He was chubby, short, and his face looked pushed in like he’d have one too many broken noses. His head tilted to look at me, and I could feel his eyes look me up and down.
“You can’t escape; you know that right?” he said. I had reached for the railing to pull myself up but paused when he said that.
“No, it’s okay. You can get on. We’ll go. But you can’t escape that blood. It’ll come back.” He turned to look ahead of the streetcar, watching the fog covered streets.
“Where’s your fare box?” I asked.
“Don’t need one,” the driver said. “It gets paid.”
I swallowed and looked past the first seat to the rest of the vehicle. There were two other passengers. One was a man with his head leaned forward just below the seat line. The other was a woman doing everything she could to look away from the front of the car. I boarded and took a seat a few rows in front of the man, and two rows ahead and on the opposite side of the woman. The driver pushed the streetcar forward, and the rails screamed in protest.
My skin prickled when the scream sounded so much like his.
I know the picture isn’t from my home town, but something about streetcars always reminds me of New Orleans. Add in the fog and willowy looking trees and I’m replacing pieces of the picture with my own memories. Imagery is a powerful thing, and when it evokes memories it also tends to spark inspiration.
On a side note, I think this is the first story on the site that didn’t involve something genre based. I don’t write much outside of sci-fi, fantasy, horror, or the multitude of micro-genres that exist within “genre” fiction. When I do, they tend to be closer to home. Seeing a picture of a foggy night enveloping a streetcar is quite the ticket to ride on that writing tram.