This short story was a contest entry a writing prompt contest. I love fiction contests, as they are so motivating, with a prompt and a deadline. It’s magical.
The theme of this contest was “tension.” If you read my story, I’d love to hear from you. How did I do?
The T
The man who was following Molly O’Doul in the Boston subway had a mane of black curly hair and a unibrow. He wore a pea coat over a white tee-shirt, and ragged jeans. Over one shoulder, he carried a black knapsack. Molly took all of this in through surreptitious glances while she waited at the Park Street Platform. She did not want him to know she was onto him. He had been following her since Alewife. She was certain of it.
After a moment of contemplation, she stepped up next to a tall, slender man with his arm around a large black case, as if it was his date. He was dressed in formal wear. Molly concluded that he was a member of the symphony, and this large black thing was his instrument. Any other time she would have given him a wide berth, for she had little interest in orchestral music. But today she needed a friend. For protection.
She sidled closer. “Excuse me.”
The symphony man looked at her through glimmering spectacles. His concerned look said, “Do I know you?” And further, “Is there some reason you are invading my personal space?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m being followed. I may need you to distract my pursuer while I run for it.”
The man glanced around and then back to her. She suddenly realized how this must look to him. She had jumped on the train in Alewife without so much as brushing her hair. Why would she, when she was on her way to the salon? Her hair was no doubt sticking out at all angles. It certainly would not help her credibility that she carried a large shopping bag full of plastic sacks she intended to drop off for recycling.
The symphony man collected his large instrument case and moved down the platform away from her, scraping the bottom on the concrete.
She glanced down the row of waiting passengers. Her pursuer stood, about two car-lengths down. As she watched, his head slowly turned toward her until their eyes met. Her face flushed. She looked away.
What was she to do? She could run for it. She looked back through the crowd to the relative emptiness beyond where a concrete stairway smelling of piss led to the outside, to Boston Common. A street musician sat near the stairway, playing guitar and harmonica at the same time. As if he could read her thoughts, he shook his head. No.
He was right. There was safety in numbers. She could run, but what if the unibrow man could run faster?
The train arrived, squealing and screeching like a great beast in pain. The doors opened and she stepped into a car with the crowd that she suddenly appreciated for its splendid ability to envelope her in its impersonal embrace. But in the next moment she looked through the window into the next car. And there he was. The man with the unibrow. He was closing in.
Think Molly, think. What could his purpose be? What did he want? What if he had a knife? Or a gun? Why her?
She wished for one of those mobile phones people were buying. Modern life in the 1990’s had shifted toward the bizarre, in her estimation. These phones were expensive — a luxury she could not afford on her salary as an editor at a downtown publishing house. Yet if she had one, perhaps she could have called the police. She chastised her mind for coming up with untenable solutions.
Her destination was Kenmore station, and Sherry’s Salon, where she was always handed a nice little cup of coffee upon entry, and the intriguing aromas of hair products co-mingled with those of the bakery next door. But the walk from the station would leave her exposed. She could not chance it.
Instead, she continued on toward Riverside, at the risk of losing her appointment. Sherry would be wondering, for Molly was always on time. She looked into the next car. The unibrow man was still there, grimacing angrily amongst the mass of humanity in the crowded car.
She was sweating now, and uncomfortable in her warm fall coat. The air felt thick. She was standing, holding onto a pole and jostling next to people who were talking, staring aimlessly, adjusting purses and briefcases, and no doubt thinking the mundane thoughts of those who were not being chased by a man with evil intent.
She leaned over to a woman in a prim business suit. Her bag of bags rustled as she moved. “Help me. Please.”
The woman looked at her in alarm. “Excuse me?”
Molly stepped closer to the woman, wishing she had brushed her teeth, or taken a mint, as she was certain now that her breath smelled sour. “Someone is trying to kill me. I need your help.”
The woman gathered her leather purse and leaped off at the next stop. It was no use.
The crowds were thinning as the train continued its journey away from downtown. It seemed her layers of protection were peeling away. The train was above ground now and the raw amber light of autumn flooded in. It was an illusion, she thought. This daylight was a ruse. Pure trickery, playing upon her mind. The moment she let her guard down, she knew, her very life was in jeopardy.
They passed Newton Highlands and Eliot. In a few stops they would come to the end of the line. What would she do then? Could she stay on and return to Kenmore? She could no longer see the unibrow man in the next car. The people in the car were all sitting now. But she knew he was there, among them.
For a few minutes, she reflected on her life, and how she had purposefully walled herself away from the imposition of friends and roommates into a small one bedroom apartment. She had grown tired of their inquiries. Was she dating? No? Had she tried a dating service? Why not? She preferred routines that gave her plenty of time alone. Her cats, her books. An occasional program on TV. And she had gotten what she asked for. She was completely alone.
The train came to a stop at Riverside. The end of the line. The conductor announced that all must disembark. She would have to get off the train. She gathered her bag of bags and stepped off. And there he was — the unibrow man — just getting out of the next car.
And he was walking toward her. Looking at her. There was nowhere to go.
She screamed.
There were voices around her. Chaos. “Ew,” some teenager said. And another, “Get a grip, bag lady.”
The man with the unibrow looked at her with some mixture of disinterest and disdain, skirted well around her and walked on.
Molly sniffed, realizing tears were coursing down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the sleeve of her coat.
When allowed, she stepped back onto the train and settled into a seat. Blinking, she looked out at the fall day, and the people on the street going about their business. A man in a red flannel shirt and jeans pulled a trash can from the road and up a driveway toward his garage. She could hear its clickety-clacking sound.
The train made a pleasant hiss and chugged forward, back toward the glorious big city, humming with life and all the things that were possible.
I hope you enjoyed my story. I truly enjoyed writing it. Feedback is welcome, as always!