The Vision

        I can hardly feel the tall, withered grass against his feet. The wind blows at the old brown grass, with an intensity that doesn't seem matched against his skin. Looking out his eyes, his vision is blurred. His senses are numb. I am him, now, in this immersion of my mind.
        I am accustomed to memories more vivid than this. It's like one of those television channels you hardly get any discernible reception from. This is new, but I know what this is. This is an echo from the dead.
        He's taken off his windbreaker and exposed himself to the elements. Around him, snow melts drop by drop as tears fall down his pale cheeks.
        Instead of tying it around his waist, he discards it into the wind. It's a powerful wind. It picks it up and blows it to the side, across the tracks.
        He's been walking all this time, along the side of the tracks. Footfalls crush melted frost against the old timbers of the old set that runs parallel. He's not supposed to be here.
        It's hard to even hear the wind's whistling, let alone the footsteps of the one who's following him. Following him. Following us. I've noticed what he did not. Not soon enough.
        Now, I can definitely feel something. This young man is cold. And he doesn't seem to care. It feels around seven Celsius, the exact temperature of every modern fridge.
        He looks at his watch, wipes away the tears to read the hands. Analog. Uncommon on one so young. Even one as old as I can make that observation.
        Now, he's struggling not to shiver. Alex, what have you gotten yourself into? Why are you showing me this? Why this and why me?
        I can hear the sliding of a door. It's louder than anything in the vision. I don't understand. He's between two gray-painted fences, eight feet high. There are no doors.
        The wind is strong now. I can feel it. Either he's really cold or I'm getting better at this. But I'm no séance-holding ghost whispering old gaffer, this isn't my field of expertise. I've always used my powers for other things.
        He's doing it again, looking at his watch. And trembling.
        Am I asleep now? Am I dreaming? No, the boy's vision is still blurry. Each step seems weak. Is he intoxicated? I can't smell any alcohol.
        "So, this is where your queer ass always disappears to," a voice behind him says.
        He turns around and swears. There's a tall, heavily-built young man staring him down with a heavy shadow against the melting snow.
        He doesn't run, he looks at his watch. I can feel his fear. It's tangible and real.
        The other adolescent's eyes are lit with a strange light. It's unreal, above his grin. Is it malevolence? No, I can hear it! Christ's sake, it's the oncoming train!
        He moves out of the way from what we can't see, and gives us a good hard push. We fall into it, nose first. The train hits us with a solid impact, and consciousness is lost from the body. The green and white paint of the GO-Train is smeared with red and gore. I hear the train, but it somehow seems distant.
        It's a bird's eye view now. An out of body experience; one that won't end. He's rising. Alex Archer is rising. And I'm seeing it all now. He rises eleven floors, and now it's just me, standing precariously on my balcony's railing.
        Dear God, no!
        My white and green housecoat is blowing loosely, open, in the wind. I am an old man again.
        This is why I can feel the wind! I've made it as real as I can for myself. I'm afraid of falling, just as he was afraid of being hit. I stumble backwards and collapse, knocking over the plastic deck chair behind me. I might have risked breaking a bone were it not for that chair, breaking my fall. My vision is over. He's left me, and I've left the sliding door open. I get to my feet, and look over the railing.
        The spot where he was hit, they've got it marked on the side of the tracks with a flowered memorial. Every rider can see it as it thunders past. I'm cold and trembling, walking inside and sliding the door firmly shut. My nose is bleeding, who knows when it started. There's blood on my housecoat, blood on my carpet.

The End

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