“it was a suicide.”

I don’t know if any of you ever frequent, or have even made a singular visitation to, a gore site or two. If you have, though, I’m certain you’re familiar with what a person looks like once they’ve been subject to a train’s wrath.

Accompanied by my old friend, Dean, I was staring vacantly at an embodiment of that visage. On the tracks lay a Gordian entanglement of gastro-intestinal tissue, endo-cranial matter, and blood-stained bone. The commuters et al. were still conversing and shouting in dismay and surprise, having already brandished their phones and what-not to capture the unfortunate event for posterity.

I wasn’t there when it had happened, exactly. Me and Dean were travelling southwards to attend one of his relative’s wedding; a three-hour traversal, so, upon one of its respective train-switching intervals, I excused myself. I was washing my hands in the men’s room when I heard an accumulative sound of horror, whereby, heart pounding, I vacated the bathroom and headed to the edge of the platform.

“Do you see that?” Dean enquired.

“I’m not fuckin’ blind. Obviously,” I responded.

“Guy just started walking like some spastic, and then just — you know — jumped!” he stated, rather insensitively.

“Damn. Poor man.”

The man’s torso was obscured by the cloth. I stared intensely. You could deem me an ‘aficionado’ of gore, but this was the first time I’d seen such a thing in real-life.

Policemen, in their traditional attire, arrived, with bountiful paramedics. As a coroner approached, I saw the cloth conduct the most microscopic and miniscule of movements. Then, again. And again, until, abruptly, it violently jerked upwards, then laterally, and then wholly removed ‘itself’. A nearby encroaching policewoman mouthed, what the fuck?

“What the fuck?” I mimicked, subconsciously.

A longirostral ‘thing’ slowly, and steadily, began to elaborately twirl and twist. And a wiry thing, too, it was. Its contortions were oddly captivating.

The crowd had already resorted to resuming their recordings, murmuring and hollering.

“This some demon shit, man,” Dean remarked, ostensibly, “let’s go.”

“No,” I said. “I want to see.”

It began to reveal more and more of its length, gradually. Extending past a meter, then two, then three, then four. The aforementioned ‘encroaching policewoman’, seemingly out of nowhere, tased it vehemently. The thing slapped violently against the tracks, as the electrifying amp-power overwhelmed whatever kind of basal nervous system it appeared to pertain to.

As it relaxed and flagged, the policewoman approached further, kicking it. It moved as per the kick’s trajectory, flaccidly. I noticed some sort of ‘wet’ patch on the respective boot form, and ‘travel’ upwards to her ankle. Whether a disillusionment of the eye due to the heavy light or not, it was drastically disconcerting. A coroner laid a cloth upon the body and the parasitory ‘thing’.

Soon, the entire train station was emptied, as police escorted us away, and arranged alternative itineraries. We took a ~£200-worth’s of a taxi-trip, as Dean insisted. We did get our money back on the tickets, though.

Whilst sedentarily reading the papers the next day, regional authors spoke of a ‘suicide by train under dubious circumstances’ from the day prior, at the same location. A fifty-six-year-old man called Edwin Thompson. Some ordinary guy who wanted to kill himself — certainly not an extraordinary predicament.

Roughly a week or two later, the same papers spoke of a policewoman who had died after ‘falling’ off of a high-rise erection. I instantaneously recognised her as the one who had tased Thompson’s corpse, and as the one who kicked the thing rooted in his back.

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