Rumble Underground

Heat swelling.

The noise is everywhere, suffocating my mind

From thinking what it wants to think.

Now it can think nothing

But her. She is still there. She always is.

Now she lives with another family,

But forever she lives in my mind.

She will be mine. Soon.

 

She knows it, but she forgets sometimes.

She forgot my name at first. Hers is glued to my eyes.

 

The man across from me, he reads a magazine.

The editorial reads her name.

The title, every line.

He front page is about her. The entire paper is.

 

The scene rumbles. Groans. Like my stomach.

The butterflies have become mechanical, robotic.

This is giddiness, but this is serious. This is a life. Soon to be my life.

It is too hot. I am too hungry.

 

Screeching. Metal against metal.

Sparks.

The woman holds her boyfriend’s hand.

Sparks.

The sparks I have never been able to ignite.

But I don’t need it.

She will be mine, the papers signed. She is mine.

 

The windows are dark. The sky doesn’t exist here. Only ground. No water.

The train stops. The wall appears and the grooves become apparent.

Graffiti. Words, no meaning.

The curve on the wall claims that “Jesus loves me,” and for the first time I believe it.

She has come to me. Just like the curve on the wall.

The train fixes itself and the curve disappears in a flash.

One sudden jerk and the curve is gone.

I am gone. Back on my journey. I know why I am here.

 

Grey disappears and fades to a certain blue, then a pitch black. Then people appear and I see light.

They stand in the crowds that consume them. Plenty of people here for one common goal: get out.

But I am trying to get in. I beat the crowd and shove my way through.

 

The address is long and complicated. Perhaps it’s the wrong one.

But no. this is the house. I remove the Polaroid from my pocket and compare it to my vision.

My eyes are right and for once, do not deceive me. This is her.

She is standing in the doorway, perfect and beautiful.

I hope she doesn’t forget my name.

She is my daughter, and she looks nothing like me.

Thank God.

Rachael Abrams

Rachael is a self-hating freelance writer that can bite through most things. She likes comedy writing, is an HBO enthusiast, and master of making inappropriate remarks seemingly on cue. She hates the heat and would probably live in an igloo if it were cold enough. You can find her on most social media, including her Twitter here.

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