Passengers awaiting the late trains had dozed off on each others' shoulders, bathed in the pale yellow overhead lights that illuminated the tracks and platforms. Molly stood in the tracks, staring down at the metal rods and wooden slabs. She held her mechanical left arm out under the light and turned it over. Her old human arm had been crushed on the tracks, before Dr. Meriwether had reconstructed it with titanium and gold plating. It was a miracle, he'd said, that he'd been able to save her.
But at that moment, Molly didn't feel like a miracle. She felt like a burden, heavy with guilt. Had the doctor truly resented her, felt nothing for her? Had she caused him to wile away the last year of his life, caring for an unpleasant girl?
Her right eye spilled over with tears, while her glass left one didn't blink a millimeter.
There was a low rumbling from below. The wooden slabs of the train tracks shivered slightly, enough to let Molly know that it was almost time for it all to end. A yellow light cut through the darkness from up ahead, and the shivering of the tracks and ringing of metal worked up into an ominous crescendo.
A hot wind glided along the tracks in front of the engine, ruffling the layered skirts of Molly's black mourning dress, and tearing the pins from her long, curly auburn hair. She shut her eyes, and prayed for no more miracles.
With about ten feet left between her and the glaring light of the oncoming train, Molly's vision blackened and she felt herself swept away by a warm breeze from the opposite direction. Must have been the angel of death. Her vision slipped away, and so did her consciousness, as a tremendous screeching filled the air.
Molly was slapped awake.
She shot upright, gasping for air, her chest aching with panic and fear. The fleshy side of her face was stinging horrendously, and she lifted her hand to touch it gently. Her vision was blurred, but somewhere in front of her, stood a shadowy figure with strange growths emerging from either side of its slender body. Wings. So she had been dragged away from the scene by an angel. But she'd never known that dead girls could feel a slap in the face so painfully, she thought as she rubbed her throbbing cheek.
"Stupid girl," the figure panted in a throaty, yet feminine, voice. Her wings suddenly contracted, disappearing from her silhouette, making Molly jump.
"Who are you? What happened?" Molly tried to ask, but her voice was only slightly more impressive than a whisper.
"I'll tell you what happened, girlie. You got bloody lucky." The winged girl leaned in to hiss in Molly's face.
Molly scowled. I always get lucky.