He walked around in no particular direction. People hurried all around him. I tried to keep an eye on him; however, a subway train blocked my view. When the train left the station, I thanked God he was still on the other side. 

I think the inner people-watcher in me loved the hell out of him. I enjoyed drawing unfamiliar faces and features.

Done with my staring, I decided to see if he needed assistance. I gathered up my newspaper, stuffed what I could into my purse and got up. Despite how old he looked, he walked like my nineteen-year-old son. His shoulders were slumped, and his legs moved slower than the rest of his body.  

After I got to the other side, I saw him leaning against the wall. His head hung low, and his eyes drooped slightly. The puffy jacket he wore looked deflated like his persona. 

As I inched toward him, I overheard people talking amongst themselves. They had been discussing the killing. I shrugged it off and turned to the man.

I was met with the unfamiliar face. I shivered. He didn’t utter a word. It almost looked like he was in some sort of daze. 

“Sir,” I tried.

No response. He just turned his gaze away and went back to his previous position. Maybe he didn’t hear me? 

“Sir, do you need help? I know this station like the back of my hand,” I tried again.

This time he turned towards me again. “Do you need directions?” I asked a little louder.

His eyes were a dull brown. I could tell because I couldn’t seem to look away. 

He scoffed.

My mouth opened and closed a few times. Clearly, he didn’t need help. That’s when he started to laugh. It was not a chuckle, but a bellowing laugh. 

“Who am I?” he asked.

I had no idea. I took a few steps backward, trying to be subtle so I could leave. A train rushed to a halt behind me. The station swarmed with people again. 

 “I really should get going,” I stuttered.

He chuckled bitterly, “I thought you’d recognize me. I mean, you’re looking right at me. You can see me.”

I glanced at his face a few more times, thinking it would suddenly hit me, trying to give him some benefit of the doubt. His face was worn out and his under eyes were a faint purple. Exhaustion enveloped his being. He sighed heavily, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I muttered something along the lines of “Goodbye” and turned away. I focused all my energy on the exit sign. 

“You’d think when a man is killed people will at least remember him then,” he said.

My breathing became ragged. I turned around as fast as I could only to find he had vanished into thin air. On the wall, I saw a shadowy silhouette looming over everyone. As if to calm myself down, I pulled out my notebook and pencil.

Bio - Natasha Lanceman

My name is Natasha Lanceman. I am a University of Ottawa graduate and a second-year Professional Writing student at Algonquin College.