I have longed with all my heart to sit in the dining car of the northwest rail and see the rising sun’s warmth on the Canadian Rockies.
And here, as the train sifts the morning clouds, with hot coffee, fresh orange scones, jam and linen napkins, there is a familiar smell. An unfriendly odor. So my gaze slides from the window to an invisible creature seated my opposite in a miserable chair.
It is too late.
A mortal wound and the bite is fresh. My blood now runs through the veins of a thief. A life stolen to satisfy guilt.
Did the other passengers see? Do they care? Did they not smell the malice? Do they drink coffee as I die alone?
Wither does the train now move? Whither do I move? Away the sun sifts cold and black. I wish to dash but drift as death drips beyond directions into nothingness.
An eye for an eye! With the last reserves of strength my left hand grasps a silver fork as my right hand prepares the trap. Vengeance will fuel my final reach. I smirk, knowing the creature will soon join my tomb.
I dash upon the creature's chair and press the weapon home. Again and Again. Fool foul upon my brow! Another successful assassination.
Terror. Ironic shattered terror.
My fingers have not gripped flesh, but the stem of a looking glass. My reflection fractured and the wound is mine. Everything: the scones, butter, jam and even this stupid mirror are now covered with my bloody ignorance.
If I hurry I can clean this mess before the creature sees. Out dam spot! Who will wash me clean of guilt and shame? Who can absolve me of these stains?
And worse, much much worse, I have squandered the sunrise.
Burdened with regret I hang my head and cry.
Then the creature says softly: “It’s alright, we will try again tomorrow. Can I serve you some fresh scones and jam?”