Twas the freaks night out...
Sitting opposite me at the train station was an old lady. She would have been about seventy. It was past midnight and the rest of the station was deserted, the only exception being the toilet cleaner and another middle-aged lady also waiting for the train.
At first it seemed like the old lady was crying. She was repeatedly dabbing her face with a tissue- used tissues piling up on the seat next to her. She was wearing a faded loose cotton shirt and what seemed to be a skirt. Her hair was pearly coloured and immaculately done. Occasionally she would stop wiping her face and look around. She seemed confident- she was equipped with a handbag and a backpack. She did not seem well-off- her feet were clad with bleach white Coles slip-ons. On noticing her shoes, my I focused my gaze on her calves. What I thought were socks were in fact bandages. The skin above the bandages was red and ulcerated, and I could see blood and pus soaking the strips around her legs.
I realised I had seen her once before, on an early morning train trip into the city. We had both caught the Newcastle Express. The previous time she had also been wearing bandages around her logs, though they didn't reach up as far, nor did her skin look so necrosed. She has also been wearing the same clothes- it's funny how such thing become imprinted in ones mind.
The cleaner at the station began mopping the floor under the seat on which she sat. She noticed this, and gingerly stood up, and shuffled a couple of feet away from where he was cleaning. He didn't acknowledge her. He moved on to the next seat, and she moved and sat back down. she resumed wiping her face. If she didn't feel lonely, I felt it for her. My heart leached empathy and compassion. I wanted to talk to her. Ask her about her life. I had never felt so intrigued about someones past before. But I couldn't move from my seat.
A couple of minutes passed. I got up to check the timetable. I walked passed her, but she didn't notice me as she was too busy cleaning her face. On returning to my seat, I walked closer to her, contemplating sitting next to her to talk to her. Coming closer to her, I saw that she was not crying, but she was in fact wiping numerous small wounds on her face. Blood reformed under the tissues as soon as she wiped it away. She methodically cleaned one sore after another, moving from one side of her face to another. When one tissue got too dirty she would reach into her handbag and pull out another. The pile of tissues grew larger, yet she didn't stop. Her cleaning prevented the wounds from healing.
My compassion was replaced revulsion and I became ashamed. I got up and walked away.
She was not there when I returned.
At first it seemed like the old lady was crying. She was repeatedly dabbing her face with a tissue- used tissues piling up on the seat next to her. She was wearing a faded loose cotton shirt and what seemed to be a skirt. Her hair was pearly coloured and immaculately done. Occasionally she would stop wiping her face and look around. She seemed confident- she was equipped with a handbag and a backpack. She did not seem well-off- her feet were clad with bleach white Coles slip-ons. On noticing her shoes, my I focused my gaze on her calves. What I thought were socks were in fact bandages. The skin above the bandages was red and ulcerated, and I could see blood and pus soaking the strips around her legs.
I realised I had seen her once before, on an early morning train trip into the city. We had both caught the Newcastle Express. The previous time she had also been wearing bandages around her logs, though they didn't reach up as far, nor did her skin look so necrosed. She has also been wearing the same clothes- it's funny how such thing become imprinted in ones mind.
The cleaner at the station began mopping the floor under the seat on which she sat. She noticed this, and gingerly stood up, and shuffled a couple of feet away from where he was cleaning. He didn't acknowledge her. He moved on to the next seat, and she moved and sat back down. she resumed wiping her face. If she didn't feel lonely, I felt it for her. My heart leached empathy and compassion. I wanted to talk to her. Ask her about her life. I had never felt so intrigued about someones past before. But I couldn't move from my seat.
A couple of minutes passed. I got up to check the timetable. I walked passed her, but she didn't notice me as she was too busy cleaning her face. On returning to my seat, I walked closer to her, contemplating sitting next to her to talk to her. Coming closer to her, I saw that she was not crying, but she was in fact wiping numerous small wounds on her face. Blood reformed under the tissues as soon as she wiped it away. She methodically cleaned one sore after another, moving from one side of her face to another. When one tissue got too dirty she would reach into her handbag and pull out another. The pile of tissues grew larger, yet she didn't stop. Her cleaning prevented the wounds from healing.
My compassion was replaced revulsion and I became ashamed. I got up and walked away.
She was not there when I returned.