The Black Butterfly

Every big green sign that passes by me shines the bright Sunday shine in my eyes, blinding me with the light of another day. I drive ,for what seems like hours, to reach the gates of the Middleton Railroads. I get out of my car when I'm bit by the cold British breeze that can only blow in the late October. I find myself running for heat, darting towards the train station entrance.

The station reeks of sweat and alcohol, the normal residue of Saturday. Bright orange and neon green signs desperately stubble to keep themselves on- flickering on and off with a constant buzz.

"May I help you?" A woman around her sixties moaned from quite a distance

"Next train to France?" I hollered across the long hall as I run to her counter

"That will be twenty-six euros"

I pay her with a smug look on my face

"Third gate down, it will be a few minute wait" She groans with a taunting smile on her face

"Thanks..."

Soon enough the train came and took me and around thirty other putrid-smelling, depressing people across the Manche River to France for God knows what- what is a smoking 50 year old mother doing that has any business in Calais anyway? Who cares, just as long as I'm here, things should improve in my life... and hopefully, my heart...

Notes