Wrong type of life on the tracks
He had planned it in meticulous detail. He’d spent months studying the intricacies of the rail network, the daily rhythms of the crowds to ensure that the most people would remember him. Found the busiest point at the busiest time. Torrents of people pouring through the network of tunnels and rails. He’d found the focal point, the heaviest cascade.
He’d given up on his isolation ending, but didn’t want to be forgotten instantly. Other people had friends, families, potential mourners. They would remember them, keep them in mind beyond the moment of death.
Nobody remembered him. He talked but no one listened. Eventually he stopped talking, and resigned himself to his fate.
He would hurl himself off the bridge, into the 0827 to London Victoria. Just outside Clapham common, the train that passed down those lines, if stopped, would interfere with the whole morning. Trainloads of commuters mornings would be interrupted by his last breath. It would take them hours to clean up the mess and get the trains running again. Get the city back on track again.
It would be his legacy.
They wouldn’t know it, but those commuters, would remember him, with their frustration. Angry calls to work, explanations and rushed dramatic blackberried messages. ‘I’ll be a little late today, I’m commemorating the death of a loved one.’
Those wouldn’t be the real words, of course, but he knew he would be the subtext of the whole debacle.
He pulled himself over the barrier on the bridge, and watched down the line as the train heaved into sight.
He was ready to give himself to the world, knowing that for the few hours afterwards, and maybe further, as the tale was recounted (’you would not believe the day I’ve had), he would be more important than he had ever been before. His life would have meaning, impact. He would be powerful. The hand of God reaching out and touching their lives.
He smiled as he let himself drop down. Time seemed to slow as a thought occurred to him.
Delays happen all the time.
People are used to this inconvenience.
Everybody at that time in the morning has adjusted their expectations to the point where this is normal.
This kind of thing happens every day.
The world doesn’t notice.
He felt a thud of regret as the train rushed and squealed it’s way through his last breath.
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