The Regrettable Journey

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It ended at 08.42.

Not that Timothy knew. In fact, so engrossed was Tim by himself that he barely registered the trains late departure. It was with an indignant grunt that he acknowledged the warming up of the engine and the noticeable picking up of speed. Not before time!

Timothy Harris, 54 and late of Wimbledon. An egotistical despot, whose need to lord it over friend, peer, foe and enemy alike, had risen to where he was, a property magnate, on the backs of others. Profit, you see, was the only language Tyrant Tim spoke, needed or understood. This very moment all Tim could do was to stop himself from considering what this delay might cost!

Was there a point where dearest Timothy resembled human? Possibly, but Tim also understood humanity, it's basest desires at least. Decades of slithering through the minutae of human relationships and social norms, Tim had acquired an assuredness of self. As he reclined into his seat, he recalled how he had served himself well....

The next hour sped past. With a start, Tim realized he had slept. Grumpily, he straightened himself up and looked around.

It was empty! Not just the carriage either.

Moving lucidly at first, then more with terror, Tim frantically searched the eight carriages but found nothing. Not a single clue as to how, or why, the train was empty, but empty it was. Using the emergency buttons had been fruitless too, the train had barely slowed.

It took Tim about ten minutes to realize what was happening outside. The usual speeding scenery, depicting towns, cities and fields, had a premiere. Not any first viewing, but a glittering spectacle to behold! For this was our Timothy's life, from everyone else's point of view!


Yes, for Timothy, Lord Of Self, would now see!


Those children, tired of waiting, climb out of bed, spew their dinner back on to plates, before looking despondent and returning to school. A wife, looking empty, as wine and lovers emptied from her!
Foes, clients and friends, all drawing back their contempt, their bile, such hate! 

What manner of violence, it's magnitude intensifying, as it swallows into an abyss of destruction, a black hole which has an eternal furnace of torments, it's torture unabated!

"So, as you sow, shall you reap!", announces the tannoy.

"This next stop, your last!".

Awakening with a jolt, Tim breathes rapidly. Blinking, sweating and confused, but the smiling face of the old lady brings an agitated normality to our man's face.

"It's OK, love!", she giggles. "Next stop is the last. So, as you reap!".

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