The Last Man

This is the first full-length story I am submitting to my writer's workshop. It is based on a freewrite I hashed out trying to get some of Akkar's backstory, altered somewhat to make it less of that hated "genre" fiction. I have removed any direct reference to his psychic abilities, and I hope the result is subtle enough to be open to interpretation. Of the three I have posted recently, I like this one the best. Which is good, since it is going in for a grade on Friday.

Word count: 1219

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The lips of the man across the compartment from me are cracked and bleeding. He appears to be so deep in thought that he is oblivious to his own pain. The light from the window he is staring intently out of sharpens his already strong features and makes him seem gaunt, though I can't imagine he is more than twenty. His hair is dark and messy, like that of a madman or particularly devoted academic. He is so focused on the scenery that he hardly moves, and for a brief moment I am convinced he is dead. When he blinks I discover that I had been holding my breath.

I have forgotten to bring any reading material with me, and there is nothing else of interest in the compartment. The upholstery is a naturally dirty yellow, and the walls have been covered in loud stripes that make the back of my eyes ache. He and I are the only two in the section. Few people can afford to travel these days, and those that do rarely have reason to. I study him again in an attempt to decipher who he is and where he could be going. His skin is pale and so allow, telling me much about his diet and little about his ethnicity. Though we are some minutes into our journey and the landscape outside the window is almost vengefully monotonous, he neither seems inclined to strike up a conversation, nor to even take notice he has company on the journey. I consider moving and trying my luck in another compartment.

As if on cue, the man at the window turns and looks at me steadily. His eyes, now visible, are ice blue, and do not smile as his mouth does. The skin on the back of my neck tightens as I meet his eyes.

“So, you headed to the University, too?” His voice is reedy, thin.

I clear my throat. “Yes, how did you know?

He shrugs. “You seem the type.”

“My father wants me to go through officer's training,” I reply. “He's a big-time war veteran, andwants me to have the chance to make a difference, to improve things like he did.”

“I take it you don't agree.”

“It's not that. I simply have no interest in taking orders. Why should I care what someone else wants me to do?”

He turns back to the window. “That's a good question.”

There is a long pause as I try to think of a topic that will keep the conversation going. Nothing comes to mind. My co-passenger seems to be similarly affected. He looks at me again, but says nothing more. A thin trickle of blood is forming at a particularly chapped patch on his lower lip. I wonder how long it has been since he has had a drink. My eyes flick back and forth between the blood and his pale, unblinking eyes. Suddenly it occurs to me that he could be blind, and I suppress a shiver. I had never shared space with a blind man before.

“No,” he murmurs. His expression gives no indication that he realizes he has spoken, so I cannot tell if he is answering my question or responding to some dark thought of his own. His blue eyes continue to bother me, but I cannot place exactly why. They are an unusual color, certainly, but that is not what is bothering me.

I inhale sharply as I fully realize what his eyes signify. The sound is embarrassingly clear. There must have been some mix-up, putting me in the same area as this man.

“No,” he murmurs again.

“Are you talking to me?”

He shrugs. “Not hard to tell what you're thinking.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” My spine goes stiff.

“Oh, come on. You know perfectly well what I am. I've seen that look before.”

I fall silent. He does not. “The university doesn't agree with the new discriminatory policies, you know.”

“A pity,” I snap.

Those pale eyes lock on me again, and this time they actually bring me into focus. His lips draw into a thin line, causing more blood to ooze from the deeper splits in his skin. I wince.

“I know your kind,” he says. “People like you and your father are why I had to leave my home. Trying to make the world a better place for some, but not all.”

“Your plight does not concern me.”

“Oh, it does. Your fear and ignorance cause the deaths of countless people daily, and not just me and mine. I left to get away from all that, and if you're any indication of what is ahead, I am already regretting my decision”

“Oh, stop being such a bleeding heart. What could these new policies have possibly done to you? All we are doing is making sure you don't get into things you shouldn't.”

“Like your government, for example?”

It is my turn to shrug. I hope that will stop him from continuing, but he seems determined to carry on. “Or, say, to keep from sticking me with some superior richboy who thinks he's too good to share his precious space?” His cheeks are gaining color, and I am too surprised by his passion to respond. My father always told me people like him had no true emotion.

“We're capable of having feelings of our own, you know. I was in love with a girl from a family like yours. We were planning on getting married, until the laws passed. Her family used it as an excuse, claiming they didn't want any legal trouble should things get worse. It was in her best interests, and all that.”

“Well, of course it was!” I reply. “Can you imagine what her life would have been like with you?”

He shuts his eyes and runs his hand across his forehead.

“What happened?” I know the question is cruel.

“She's dead.”

The compartment feels suddenly smaller, and I recoil despite myself. I think of my father's thick mustache. If he were here he would mock this man, turning his own words against him, hurting him further, but never once giving a hint of the pleasure it gave him. My throat feels thick. All I do is swallow.

The man smiles at me humorlessly. “Don't bother me with your snobbery or your condescension. You people have taken enough already, and you still pretend the laws are helping matters. Do you not have eyes?”

I can't help but ask the forbidden question. “Did she leave a note?”

“Yes.” He did not elaborate.

I think of my father again. “If she knew what she was doing, she saved her family some face and denounced you.”

His cheeks look fevered, and the lines around his eyes deepen. “What about me scares you so much?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

As one, we turn to the window and gaze out over the terrain. Very little distance has been covered.