The Sad Realities of a Suicide by Train
Like most other human beings, I ponder what my last moments will be like. Will I be young or old? In my home or far away? Will it be painful? Will my affairs be in order? For most people, these uncertainties work themselves out through the inevitability of old age and disease. But far too often people act against nature and remove themselves from the mortal coil by their own hands. This is an all too common occurrence in Japan, where a favored method of dispatching oneself has long been via train. Despite many precautions on the side of the train companies, (including charging the deceased's family for any delays in service, installing gates on and heavily monitoring the platforms,) the jumps continue.
This evening, as I arrived at the station for my commute home, it was obvious something was wrong. A crowd of people were huddled near the turnstiles, while a train employee with a loudspeaker was giving out information that I couldn't understand. I was hoping that the trouble was at some other station and that the people crowding around were merely trying to receive vouchers, but luck was not on my side. When I reached the platforms all trains were stopped. The digital schedules at each platform showed the time each train had been scheduled to depart with the note, "delayed 15 minutes" scrolling in bright red characters. They didn't move for another 50 minutes.
During that time, staring at a practically-empty train car, my mind made the assumption that someone had jumped. I think that almost every time a train is delayed, although there are many other causes, such as mechanical problems and high winds. But a delay as serious as this one really only means one thing to me. I wondered if the other people on the platform were thinking the same thing I was. I wondered whether they are even phased by it anymore.
We've all had our bad weeks, months, years. Some of us have had bad lives. Sometimes when I'm feeling especially gloomy, I watch the train pull into the station and wonder for a split second what it would be like. So easy . . . just one step. But it's not for me; I'm too attached to life. It's just too easy. Too cowardly. And too messy. Feeling the wind of the train rush past is very life-affirming.
When the first of the four stopped trains finally announced its departure an hour late, I was reminded of the sadness of suicide. That's it, huh? One hour of inconvenient delays to a few hundred weary people on their way home from work and all memory of the event is wiped from the collective conscience. Someone who had a name, a mother and father, a story, and all that's left is . . . nothing. A lump of unrecognizable flesh and a family in mourning. What a sad way to go.
This evening, as I arrived at the station for my commute home, it was obvious something was wrong. A crowd of people were huddled near the turnstiles, while a train employee with a loudspeaker was giving out information that I couldn't understand. I was hoping that the trouble was at some other station and that the people crowding around were merely trying to receive vouchers, but luck was not on my side. When I reached the platforms all trains were stopped. The digital schedules at each platform showed the time each train had been scheduled to depart with the note, "delayed 15 minutes" scrolling in bright red characters. They didn't move for another 50 minutes.
During that time, staring at a practically-empty train car, my mind made the assumption that someone had jumped. I think that almost every time a train is delayed, although there are many other causes, such as mechanical problems and high winds. But a delay as serious as this one really only means one thing to me. I wondered if the other people on the platform were thinking the same thing I was. I wondered whether they are even phased by it anymore.
We've all had our bad weeks, months, years. Some of us have had bad lives. Sometimes when I'm feeling especially gloomy, I watch the train pull into the station and wonder for a split second what it would be like. So easy . . . just one step. But it's not for me; I'm too attached to life. It's just too easy. Too cowardly. And too messy. Feeling the wind of the train rush past is very life-affirming.
When the first of the four stopped trains finally announced its departure an hour late, I was reminded of the sadness of suicide. That's it, huh? One hour of inconvenient delays to a few hundred weary people on their way home from work and all memory of the event is wiped from the collective conscience. Someone who had a name, a mother and father, a story, and all that's left is . . . nothing. A lump of unrecognizable flesh and a family in mourning. What a sad way to go.