Unlucky

A child in a dystopian society watches and wonders at the "unlucky" people.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Hung from the very tip of my little finger, the necklace swung, like the pendulum of a ticking clock. Attached to the chain was a small, unassuming pendant. A heart. Quite plain, apart from a single rhinestone in the middle. I liked it anyway. It shined so brightly it could mesmerize even the strongest wills. I liked to watch the flickering lights of the train reflect in its smooth surface, bouncing around like glittering sunbeams on water. 

The chain slipped off my finger as the train lurched, and I just barely caught it before it hit the floor.

“Be careful,” my mother warned, though she sounded tired. She had not even really looked over from where she gazed emptily out the window, as if paralyzed by thought. I was usually careful. I did not want to lose that necklace, but it was the train’s fault, that time. 

Without me even having noticed, for I was so entranced with the swinging silver, the windows had gone dark outside. The train had begun to slow, brakes squealing below us. It was midday, so I knew that the sun could not yet have gone down. Which meant that we were underground. The faces of those on the opposite isle were now streaked with a pale foreboding, as their fear grew. I just watched them with big, round eyes, glad that I was not one of them and wondering what might happen to them once they got off of the train.

These stops happened now and then. I had only seen a few of them, myself, since my mother insisted that we avoid taking the train as much as possible. There was always a chance of being unlucky. Fifty percent, I believe she said. Whatever that means.

An eerie stillness followed when the train stopped. I promised myself I would pay attention this time, but I had gotten distracted again, and the location of that dark, damp tunnel was still unknown to me. Oh, well... Next time, maybe.

My eyes focused on a woman; she sat a row behind me on the opposite side of the aisle. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were moving silently. I knew what it was, but prayer continued to perplex me no matter how many times I witnessed it. It could never change whether or not you were unlucky, so why bother? Even so, it kept her from crying so that was a nice change from what I typically witnessed at these stops. She looked like the sort of person who might cry. There were creases around her eyes and on her forehead from frowning, so I supposed she must be unhappy a lot. And whenever I was unhappy, I cried, too. 

Aha! I spotted a tear as it rolled down her cheek, over her lips, and down her neck. I smiled, pleased with myself for having been right.

Several minutes passed in that painful stillness. The only noise that shook the carriage was the crying and anxious breathing of the people opposite me. Then, seeming to come out of nowhere, there was a man on board. He walked down the aisle with a stiff gait and even stiffer, emotionless expression under his brimmed hat, motioning for the unlucky people to stand up, which only made them panic more. That would not help them, either. They should have just been faster! Mother and I always made sure to be fast. Get on quick, and you can stay on the lucky side. Then you do not have to cry.

The doors opened to receive them like the ungodly jaws of death and one after another, people filed off the train into the darkness beyond. My vision could not follow past those gates of fate. Even through the windows, I could no longer see them. It was as if they had simply been swallowed up by the inky black that awaited on the outside of the train. Then, before long, all of them were gone. The side of the train opposite myself and my mother was left empty, apart from all the bags and belongings that they had to leave behind. They would be donated, since the unlucky people never came back.

The doors slid shut and I felt the train lurch under my feet once more as it started forward. I leaned back in my seat and casually swung my feet as I held up the necklace on the end of my finger. It swayed. Back and forth, back and forth. 

The small hinge creaked open. Back and forth, back and forth. It had always been loose. But then I saw my father’s face looking back at me. His eyes and mine met as he swung back and forth, back and forth. 

That locket was the only thing my mother gave to me to remember my father, although it was more of a warning than a simple memento. “Don’t be like him,” she always told me. “He was unlucky.” 

So all I had to do was just stay lucky. And how hard could that be?

Back and forth, back and forth...