A Known Brat From Before

She used to be a partner with one of my close friends, back when we all went to the same high school. I had seen them together in the hallway many times, fingers interlocked and pleasantries given to all passing mates, including myself. Soon enough I knew it wouldn't work, so they ended up breaking it off; last I heard of her was when she decided to be called by another name - a male one in fact.
We had boarded the same train due northwest, toward the O'Hare airport. I paid zero attention to her, for I was focused on my world since the absence of earphones brought boredom to my journey home. After a few minutes had rolled by, the train finally came to my (our) stop, and we stepped out through the doors, up the escalator, into and out of the turnstile, and began to play the finishing touches on reaching home. She walked ahead of me, constantly looking back as if someone was observing her with bad attention - then again there was a small circle of teenage rejects that were filled with blabber that might've been harassing her. Or mayhap she recognized me, and didn't wish to communicate (thank god for that).
The declining staircase lead to the parking lot outside of the station, where she then angrily threw her pink lighter to the edge of the curb, a staging that I found hilarious and started to giggle a bit. I ignored her thus after. I was in no mood to trigger the brat's lividness anymore than what was being done. Thankfully she went into a different direction, relieving me from the quiet tension shared between me and her.
I'm not sure what sort of conclusion I can take away from this. All I know is that they're [teenagers] are still brats and they're easily agitated by anything, even if it's within their own minds.
As people have said before, time and time again, "Those damn kids!"
I called her brat, because she tossed her pretty lighter to the ground without any known reason. "Don't judge a book by its cover," but I always do.

March 18th, 2016

Infectious and Open, The Leg of A Zombie

During one of the colder days of the late-winter season, I had witnessed a battered and infectious homeless man amid the Blue Line train, sauntering in-between the seats with a noticeable limb that contained a filthy cast, now rendered useless due an open wound that surpassed the surface of his skin, and thus sinking deeper through muscles and inevitably bone, but not yet. It was about the same size as a softball, only now coated in puss spots, thin veins of dry blood, shiny patches of fresh bleeding, and the rim of the wound now clothed in dirty debris from the outside. It was an engrossing and upsetting scene. Another broken denizen, working mildly at his best to get what he can from the rest of the traveling commuters.
I pretended to be asleep when he came close to me. I was disgusted when I saw the wound up close. From all the inexhaustible snaps and films filled with gore, I was surprised to find myself wincing at the sight. I grinded my teeth like biting into a tough, kinghell of a steak; he was now walking passed me and ended up repeating on the same monologue he gave beforehand: "I am at risk for hypothermia...I am also at risk for amputation...God bless you, and have a wonderful day." His tiring journey then transferred over to the other car via the emergency door, a habit that many disturbing wrongdoers, miasma-infested roamers, and splintered rolling stones have become accustomed to in lieu of patiently waiting for the train to stop very shortly.
Some time into the future I saw him enter the same train car I was in, once again repeating the same process from before - I pretended to play dead once more.
This man had the leg of a zombie, a namesake completely inspired from obvious sources.

Supposed Harassment From A Lonely Beast

Upon a vital and calming revisit to Old Frank after failing to find a mate to chill with, I decided to walk amid Michigan Avenue to visualize the lyrics into scenery within rooms of the hotels, with some windows being half-closed, completely in secrecy from the outside, wide open for the sunshine to peek through, and other various styles of curtain adjustment. I then transferred over to State Street, where I ditched Frank and found a playlist of Nat King Cole to keep me company until I got through the Blue Line turnstile on Washington.
What occurred next was an absurd mixture of drama and romance. When a woman with short hair, thick glasses, and an admirable winter coat was walking approximately three to four feet to my left behind me, she was approached by a shelter-less man with upfront requests, possibly for money - it was difficult to decipher since Cole was still playing. However, after a few short seconds, I heard her exclaim, "I don't need you fucking harassing me!" which followed a transpire action of turning around and spilling her rage toward him, like a guard dog barking intensely at a nearby pedestrian.
I turned around and witnessed only her back to me as she verbally fought with the supposed harasser.
I stood before the blue line with her presence lurking behind me, for I sensed her eyes were fixed on me for a bit.
Four minutes later, the train had arrived. We went into different train cars, concluding our ghost acquaintance and away from the lonely beast of unknown intentions.
I named her Jane, an associated name I overheard from a group of LGBT enthusiasts at the Gay Parade, where one woman, named Jane, told a man to "Back off, you fuck!" after he apparently grasped her ass.

March 3rd, 2016