The Commuter

• Ethan Brouw, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2019

The metallic box hummed through the streets of the Metropolitan district, whizzing over steel grates, its polished shiny rims scarcely murmuring as the slick tires caressed the buckled silver streets. Adrift in the sterilised posterior of the transport, hunched a pair of tanned brogue shoes, worn by an innocuous crimson suit (with caramel lining), living on a body that had been pushed to the limits. The ‘precaution’ perched over those blood shoot irises appeared out of place next to the shambled jet-black locks flopped across his forehead. He scratched the patches of melancholy hair positioned like isles around his jaw, slack with anticipation. Ahead the entrancilating images threatened to engulf his entirety, enthralling patterns warmly beckoning towards the familiar fumbling of ecstasy. But the illusion was not his reality today. It was just as the stranger next to the Bald Rock had insisted, “time to escape.” Through the inaudible haze he could barely make out the echoing footsteps as he, but not as himself, approached the man, swallowed by a torrent of bustling commuters. Through the wrong end of a telescope, he could trace the red crystalline contents of the bag with his eyes, and the hear the figure scoff at his questions.
“Do you want it or not… rare, rare stuff this… what people in the know refer to as THIRD EYE”
Third eye? The autonomous moan of the bus aroused him from the place he had been:
“SECTION DELTA-T-9”
The manicured streets welcomed his muffled footsteps compassionately as he traced across the perfect lawn of his front superficial patio. The lucrative hypnogenic stared into his soul, as he managed to slump into the impression of his homely lounge (after the adequate security checks, of course).
“To escape,” he murmured, before inhaling some of the crystalline substance. Instantly the mist of the ‘Suburban dream’ dissipated. Gazing outside he could almost see into hell. The cracked sidewalk burst at the seams; mangled vines strangled small thistles, bullet shells littered the ground, half submerged by the acid-like hazard leaking from the ragged bitumen road. The putrid smell of trash and decaying matter was overwhelming, hissing and frothing like a vat of steaming blood. Gazing up at the monovalent sky he noticed monotonous hulking metal skyscrapers and corporate blimps, who’s lights were barely visible from down here near the city limits.
What was this purgatory? Or the real world? His sanity returning and his mind lifting from the haze, he knew what he had to do. No autonomy was worth this price. Tossing the drug and his shades into the incinerator he took one last glance at his reality, before returning to their illusion. Frothing violently with an aqua ferocity, the mandatory water oozed too easily from the kitchen tap. Gulp, splutter, cough. He could feel the mirage returning, gone were the fires, replaced by the perfect suburbia. Feeling senseless, the man observed the harmonious townhouses. What was this nonsense? His relaxed face couldn’t remember, he was ready for work.