End of the Line

Writer's Cramp 27/1

New Prompt: ▶︎

Start your story or poem with the following: Just 24 years old, with 24 dollars in his pocket and a train ticket to... (you fill in to where)

Just 24 years old, with 24 dollars in his pocket and a train ticket to... well, Elias didn't know where.
He'd boarded the last train out of the station, and paid to reach the end of the line.

Just 24 years old, with 24 dollars in his pocket and
running away into the night.
No prospects, no future, no hope.

Just 24 years old and... done.

How had it come to this?

The day had started like any other
glorious sunshine following hurried steps
as he wove through the crowds
running late, again, voicemail temporarily forgotten as he planned.

Coffee and cakes for the staffroom
would have to come from the station
rather than the bakery they all preferred
to be ready for thirty smiling faces walking through those doors.

Algebra and poetry, lessons planned
honeyed tea – internet's solution for this persistent cough
while children played,
he marked green notes through childish scrawl.

Then at lunch and his phone's siren call.
A strange message, an urgent request
competing with the coming bell.

It could wait
he'd waited long enough
What difference would an afternoon make?

An appointment, made for end of day.
The news, not good, that is to say
months, maybe if he'd take the chance
or perhaps a future on another branch?

Streets wandered in mindless haze
hours passed on leaden feet through
dark alleys to the trade
and on his way.

Sour whiskey burnt quickly through his veins
breath laboured as it fades.

Eyes heavy fixed 'pon silver screen
"Wrong results. Come back."

Ticket to nowhere, the train pressed on.

End of the line.
24 years old and... gone.