Anne
written by: E.S. Canela
Anne would never have considered herself a bad person. She went to school, did her homework. Didn’t join in any of the bullying. Usually. Almost never.
They had a family cat, and she fed and cared for her, sometimes. When she remembered. Her parents loved her, she guessed. And life in the town was pleasant, if only in a boring, uninteresting sort of way.
She didn’t have many friends at school, but she wasn’t really lonely, now. Was she? Her classmates were all right.
Most of the time, they weren’t even that mean.
And although the birthday invitations had faded away over the years, that had suited her just fine. She was unaware that they sniggered behind her back at her silences and her soft voice.
Weird. That’s what they called her. Weird and bookish. But not bad. Not really.
***
The room was a mess in a way only a teenager could manage to make. If spontaneous life sprouted from the mass of hoodies and jeans, she wouldn’t have been surprised.
But then, it just wouldn’t be Anne, would it? She thought as she stood in the doorway.
Her unfocused eyes roamed the room. On the walls, there were trophies, diplomas, and posters of who knew what. On the unmade bed, stuffed animals were piled haphazardly. Some were all stitches and bare patches of fur.
The sun had started to set when she heard the door, and a moment later, her husband’s soft footsteps coming up the stairs. It was with the same unfocused eyes that she looked at him. At his black suit and his concerned, tear-streaked face.
“Honey?” he asked carefully. “Have you been here all day?”
“Well, the room’s still a mess,” she mumbled. “Anyway… how’d it go?”
“It was.. Nice.” His voice caught a moment. “For a funeral. Anne would have liked it.”
***
It had been raining when she had walked to the train station that Saturday. When her plain, boring, empty life had weighed so much on her that she could hardly breathe, and she had found herself, suddenly, looking at the coming train. She had not been a bad person.
But she had killed herself.
Purgatory is a strange place. It is a punishment, but it is not a torment. So Anne climbs onto a train, under the rain. The same man tries to establish a conversation she does not wish to have, time after time, after time. This train goes nowhere. Eventually, the fog makes her drowsy, and when she wakes, she is on the platform again. And again. And again.
In some ways, it is no different from the life she had lived. The life she had tried to escape from. As her ticket vanishes in smoke, she tries not to cry.
The End
- Anne - August 18, 2025
- A Hint of Rosemary - May 9, 2025
