Free Guilt by Leen Elle Page B

the sound of the train scared me. A thin wooded thicket lined the long and narrow backyard of our home, and beyond it, the train tracks stretched. The swing set my father built for us stood near the thicket, and that's where I spent most of my summer days.
    But when the train came through, I ran.
    It always sounded so angry to me, a wounded beast enraged because it was in pain. Then, the vibrations would come and the earth would start shaking. I thought the ground might actually crack open. So, I sprinted for the house long before the engine passed by. Once inside, I hid underneath the dining room table and covered my ears to block out the train's furious cries. It was my safe place.
    As I got older, I became braver. I stood out there, by the swing set, daring myself to watch the train pass. Lil used to run into the thicket waving her arms in greeting at the conductor. I never did, and I didn't look to see if he ever waved back. I just stared at the long massive rail cars as they whipped the air through the trees. It was enough to know that the monster always took the same route, flying by at top speed, then disappearing. I knew that I would have a day or two of peace after that.
    No matter how old I got, the sound of the train held some kind of inexplicable torment for me. The dread changed and reshaped itself with maturity, and tonight I turned that anxiety inward. When I heard the echo, all at once, I feared time. The train's call was the sound of my childhood, fleeting into the void. That feeling weighted on my heart and weakened my lungs.
    These days, Brickerton's last working railroad track saw use maybe twice a week, usually at three o'clock in the morning. Once the train's horn woke me, I couldn't get back to sleep. Counting the minutes and watching the hours go by, I gazed at the red glowing numbers of the twenty year-old old alarm clock that sat on the white washed dresser.
    An ache began to make its way into my lower back from another night spent on an old stiff mattress. By four thirty, I decided to go downstairs and sleep on the couch. With my arm wrapped around my pillow, I dragged the old bed comforter down the stairs, only to find that my destination was already occupied. Jacob slept soundly there, with the light of the muted television casting a blue glow over his face.
    He looked peaceful, with the handsome features that he'd inherited from his mother. Only, his countenance was much more innocent than hers had ever been. I didn't blame him for stating that I was a bitch the evening before. Children only knew what they were taught, and parents had unequivocal influence over their offspring, even if they didn't think they did. Lil had painted an unjust picture of me for my nephew, but I'd never been around to disprove it.
    My sister wasn't my favorite person in the world, but she did appear to make a general attempt at motherhood. That softened her a little - a very little - in my eyes. The fact that her son only seemed to pick up on the improper lessons – that part, I had to admit, was entertaining. Payback.
    After a moment of slight disappointment over the fact that my intended resting place had been usurped, I settled myself in the armchair. It beat the hardwood mattress upstairs.
    I must have finally dozed off because when I was shaken awake, a rude awakening effected by my mom, the sun was creeping through the curtains. I shifted my position in the chair, and discovered that I had a stiff neck now to go with my aching back.
    "Clairebie, honey," Mom said, "what are you doing sleeping in the chair?"
    "I don't know," I responded while trying to rub the cramp out of my neck. "I used to be able to sleep anywhere. In a chair, on the floor. Heck, I remember throwing a blanket down in the yard and sleeping there for hours despite the tree roots that poked into my back. Nothing seems comfortable anymore."
    Mom just laughed and looked over her shoulder at me as I followed her into the kitchen. "You're still in