He sat with his head in his hands; unable to believe, incapable of processing what had happened. Things could hardly have turned out worse. He’d wracked his brains for hours, trying to think of a solution, a way out of the mess he found himself in. This chain of events, though by no means entirely his fault, had centred about him, sucking everyone around him into it, leaving stricken, emotional casualties. What’s worse, it was becoming increasingly out of control, set to do more damage and wreck more lives.
As desperation dissipated, acceptance dawned. A satisfactory solution was impossible. The only escape, the best form of damage limitation and the only option really available to him were all one and the same. He had to end it all. That too would be irreversible, but it wasn’t as if he had any better options. To continue living would be to continue the fall-out for everyone else. At least this way, a line could be drawn beneath it all, and perhaps the whole sorry mess might reach a conclusion of sorts for everyone else entangled in it. It would be best for him and everyone else if he took the easy option and brought the whole sorry affair to an end. His life was already over, so why keep living?
He made his plans, put his affairs in order as best he could and wrote a note. He didn’t bother writing a will. He had little money and few assets left. Instead, he just wrote ‘give everything to the homeless’ at the bottom of his brief suicide note.
He looked at the London Underground map he kept in his wallet, and chose his station: Chalfont & Latimer. For some reason, it felt like some sort of betrayal to commit suicide in the city he’d loved for so long. Besides, he’d always been curious about the place, it sounded quaint, although it seemed he’d never get to see much of it. Additionally, it was near the end of the line, which meant that there would probably be minimal disruptions to the service. Fleetingly, he hoped that the people going to Amersham and Chesham wouldn’t be too inconvenienced.
He took the train to Charing Cross and from there walked the night streets to Baker Street. He wanted to witness the city one last time. The streetlights lent the sky above an unnatural, glowing hue; the night sky is never black in London. Damp, frigid air chilled his lungs. He hadn’t bothered to wrap up warm; he wanted to experience something besides despair, even if that meant feeling cold.
At Baker Street, he descended the stairs to the Underground and waited three minutes for the Westbound Metropolitan tube to Amersham. He boarded the train and took a seat right at the end of its row. He faced forwards, eyes glazed, looking at nothing, feeling nothing.
At North Harrow, a handful of people got into his carriage, and as they did, two shades of purple suddenly caught his eye. First, the dark purple cap of a young man with dyed auburn hair. A woman followed him, a lilac sweater protruding from beneath her coat. They both went to sit on the other side of the doors. Others followed them in and took their seats, but he’d already lost interest and returned to glazed numbness.
Moments passed before his eyes were drawn to two teenage girls who had sat just across from him. One girl’s rucksack had bright purple zips on the rucksack. Her friend wore Adidas trainers with two purple stripes surrounding one gold stripe. Turning his eyes away, he noticed the chairs’ upholstery; faded light blue and mauve triangles arranged erratically on a darker blue background. This flurry of purple reawakened his senses, and momentarily distracted him from his resigned misery. Unconsciously, he smiled one last time.
He got off at Chalfont and Latimer and walked to a bench built into the wall. Far from quaint, it was just dark. Only sodium-lights illuminated the platform with their orangey glow. He couldn’t see much else, but didn’t really care. Suicide doesn’t require a beautiful backdrop.
There were few others on the platform. A tired looking middle-aged guy in a suit came and sat on the other end of the bench, reading the sports pages of the Evening Standard.
He sat perfectly still on the bench, awaiting the fate he had chosen for himself. Being late at night, he had to wait some time for the next train. When the digital display declared one minute until the next train, he stood up, brushed himself down, and checked his reflection in the glass of the notice board besides the bench. He looked back at himself, unfeeling. Acknowledging himself with a final, small nod, he turned and walked slowly, steadily towards the edge of the platform. He could hear the rumble of the tracks, and seconds later; he saw the light of the approaching train. The train began to slow as it pulled into the station. He took a deep breath, then one final stride, knowing his feet would find no purchase. Humbled onto the tracks below.
As he landed awkwardly on the tracks, he heard a shout behind him. His ankle was twisted, but he rolled over and waited to see his fate, to witness his own end. He rested his head on a rail. A cold, metal pillow for the deepest of sleeps.
The tired, middle-aged man appeared at the edge of the platform, but he knew it was too late. They both knew. The man stared down at him, jaw dropped, aghast. He looked up at the suited man, and noticed he was wearing a purple silk tie. He had no fear, no sadness, no clear thoughts; he just stared at that purple tie, transfixed.
As the train crashed over him, crushing his bones and internal organs, he had the sudden, final realization. His favourite colour was purple.
