Art

There he is again same time every night. Same hoodie and the same notebook he carries. I believe he's homeless because he always falls asleep on here and it's still just him and I riding to the same stop except he doesn't get off. He rests his head on the separator and drifts off to the rhythm of the tracks. Tonight is different because he's not there.

I'm wondering where he could be possibly. Three days pass and he's back. Everything is the same as last time. He never looks up and he never lets go of his book.

Tonight I'm off early and I'm surprised he's waiting for the train like me. I watch him his every move like a profiler. He is inching closer pass the yellow line. Like he is trying to cross it on purpose. There are two transit officers approaching him and they arrest him. While he puts up a fight he looses his book in the scuffle.

I relinquish it I open to find sketches of everyone and everything he's seen. He drew me several times and made stories of my days. The next day I wait at the same stop and nothing he's not there today. Maybe he did some real harm to someone. But his drawings are peaceful especially the one with the bits of blood splatter from my head when the man left to me pulls out the gun and bury the bullet deep into my cranial cavity.

Anyone else would find this disturbing but art is beautiful in his own way. As I'm flipping through the book a man in a suit with a brief case to his chest sits beside me and the more I flip the tighter he grabs his brief case. When I reach the end the man is holding a gun to my head and art splatters and covers the train and everyone inside it.