Fill: Tabula Rasa (3/?)swiftmintSeptember 15 2011, 15:41:13 UTC
He was sitting in the last table in the dining car at a lonely two top next to the window. He had ordered the first least expensive thing on the menu and it had arrived ten minutes after. He hadn't touched it. Instead he was staring out the window at the people boarding the train just as they had the last two stops since the train had left.
He didn't know much for sure, but he knew these facts at the very least, and, if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, these facts alarmed him greatly. They were arguably innocent things, yes, especially to an outside onlooker. Unfortunately, as much as he felt like an outsider in his own body, he could also see the purpose behind all those supposedly arbitrary decisions.
The seat was chosen because it was on the far side of the car, away from the kitchen so he'd receive less attention and also could keep his back to the wall. He knew every person in the car at that time, knew every exit, had the train's route mapped carefully in his head, all without really trying. The only reason he'd ordered at all was to buy himself some quiet, some time to think, but now that he had it he didn't know what to do with it. What exactly is a man who has no idea who they are supposed to think about?
Instead, he had turned to watch the boarding passengers. Their stories were told by the amount of luggage, the set of their shoulders, their accents. This was the third stop of six before their train reached Switzerland and the people on the platform were notedly more casual as they stepped on, speaking of their humble occupations and contrasting sharply from the sharp gray and black business suits of the last two stops.
He watched a family of three standing off slightly to the side, a small child entertaining himself by vaulting over their well worn luggage while his parents just tried their best to keep his energy corralled into their immediate area.
He found himself smiling at it, fidgeting with the unused butter knife on the table to keep his hands occupied.
The father had recently came into some reasonable amount of money, he deduced, noting the mismatched wear on the various articles of clothing. He'd originally come from some type of manual labor though, his shoes might have been black at some point but were now a mottled, worn brown from dirt and grease.
The fidgeting had turned into some curiously dextrous flip of the knife over and between each knuckle of his hand. He frowned at it before resolutely setting the knife down.
He turned back to the window, liking the idea more of making judgments about the people outside by what he observed rather than using the same skill on himself. The family boarded the train, leaving only a few stragglers behind. That was when he noticed them.
Five or six uniformed men rounded the corner of the terminal and strode towards his train with obvious intent.
He was out of his chair before the observation had completely solidified, and this time he didn't stop the instinct. He knew next to nothing these days, he didn't know his name, didn't know where he was from, didn't even know what his native language was ... but he knew, somehow, that those people were here for him and he could not allow them to succeed.
He didn't know much for sure, but he knew these facts at the very least, and, if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, these facts alarmed him greatly. They were arguably innocent things, yes, especially to an outside onlooker. Unfortunately, as much as he felt like an outsider in his own body, he could also see the purpose behind all those supposedly arbitrary decisions.
The seat was chosen because it was on the far side of the car, away from the kitchen so he'd receive less attention and also could keep his back to the wall. He knew every person in the car at that time, knew every exit, had the train's route mapped carefully in his head, all without really trying. The only reason he'd ordered at all was to buy himself some quiet, some time to think, but now that he had it he didn't know what to do with it. What exactly is a man who has no idea who they are supposed to think about?
Instead, he had turned to watch the boarding passengers. Their stories were told by the amount of luggage, the set of their shoulders, their accents. This was the third stop of six before their train reached Switzerland and the people on the platform were notedly more casual as they stepped on, speaking of their humble occupations and contrasting sharply from the sharp gray and black business suits of the last two stops.
He watched a family of three standing off slightly to the side, a small child entertaining himself by vaulting over their well worn luggage while his parents just tried their best to keep his energy corralled into their immediate area.
He found himself smiling at it, fidgeting with the unused butter knife on the table to keep his hands occupied.
The father had recently came into some reasonable amount of money, he deduced, noting the mismatched wear on the various articles of clothing. He'd originally come from some type of manual labor though, his shoes might have been black at some point but were now a mottled, worn brown from dirt and grease.
The fidgeting had turned into some curiously dextrous flip of the knife over and between each knuckle of his hand. He frowned at it before resolutely setting the knife down.
He turned back to the window, liking the idea more of making judgments about the people outside by what he observed rather than using the same skill on himself. The family boarded the train, leaving only a few stragglers behind. That was when he noticed them.
Five or six uniformed men rounded the corner of the terminal and strode towards his train with obvious intent.
He was out of his chair before the observation had completely solidified, and this time he didn't stop the instinct. He knew next to nothing these days, he didn't know his name, didn't know where he was from, didn't even know what his native language was ... but he knew, somehow, that those people were here for him and he could not allow them to succeed.
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