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My Conscience.
By Peter Thompson
He sat there cold and still. Not an inch of him moved, even twitched. His skin was white like a sheet covering his cold, dark character.
His hands were folded softly across his lap. He wore a fedora hat, jaded and shabby. It gently dinted at each side and was perched very precisely on his head. His 19th century glasses magnified his malicious, almost lifeless eyes. He then began to speak to me; his voice was cold and shallow. I just stood there and listened, not daring to move. I became quite frightened of this man; I didn't know quite what to make of him. He could have come from another planet though I thought it unlikely, but there was something about him, something about his presence that made me feel uneasy and gave him a look of inhumanity. I sat there and listened.
After he had finished I then began to take in my surroundings. The bench close by and was wet which made me reluctant to sit on it, but the only other
option was to take a seat by the old man. The platform was damp and slippery and could have been quite dangerous if not for the hard grit that
surfaced it. The rail tracks were rusted with age and weather, and placed in between them were a row of artificial palm trees standing tall and proud.
The water droplets on the great window opposite where I sat were catching glimpses of sunlight and producing rays of light all over the platform. It
made me feel at ease after listening to the old man and I felt calm and relaxed as if I had just stepped into a hot bath. I began to drift into a light
sleep, my head cocked to one side, my eye-lids twitching from open to closed. I had lost all sense of my surroundings as I drifted into oblivion.
My footsteps echoed across the platform. It was a cold, icy day and the platform certainly showed this. The ground on which I walked was smeared
with a light layer of frost which glistened weakly in the morning light. The cold wind whistled through the palm trees making the hairs on the back of
my neck stand up. I got the feeling something wasn't quite right. I trudged on listening to the whistle of the wind and the whisper of the palm trees. I
looked around unable to shake off the feeling that I was being watched. I came to a nearby bench which I was glad of despite the surface being wet
with dew. I sat and waited nervously for the next train to arrive. Minute by minute passed and still no train and minute by minute I became more
uptight. Ten minutes had passed and I began to wonder if a train was ever going to arrive, so I stood up and walked silently towards the edge of the
platform, lent my head to see if a train was approaching from the distance. Nothing, only the distant hills were visible under a sheet of thick fog which
was now apparent in the sky. I began to shiver so decided to take retreat from the cold under a small shelter hanging loosely over the bench I had
once sat on.
As I retook my seat on the bench I heard the hollow sound of footsteps coming closer towards me. I edged from one side of the bench to the other,
the blood throbbing against my veins. The footsteps drew even closer, their sound echoing against the deep walls of the deserted station.
The sound was becoming almost unbearable. I gritted my teeth and sealed my eyes shut, not daring to open them to see what horror awaited me. I
peeked at what I had guessed was standing right in front of me. A man, at least I think that's what he was, stood completely still, masked in the
shadows. I couldn't see his face. He did not speak nor make any signs at all.
It felt like the station walls were closing in around me.
The strangest part of this whole hellish scene was that there was something so familiar about this man. The aura around him felt close and fitted so
neatly into my very being. Alarmingly, it felt as though I knew him, as though he had been a part of my life forever. Yet I was so daunted and
scared by his menacing presence that I couldn't speak or question him about my feelings.
As he came closer, I felt myself become rooted to the bench where I sat. Had I wanted to move, had I needed to run, I would not have had the will to do
so. The effect this stranger's being had on me was utterly overwhelming. I was frozen and at his mercy.
What was this thing? What did it want from me? How could I escape the torment that was embedded in this person as he closed in on me? Why did I
feel such a confusion of emotions, ranging from familiarity and knowing to fear and loathing?
As he sat beside me I felt an icy blast through my veins as though my blood had turned cold; and it was in that moment that I knew I had to confront all
my fears and speak to this man.
Without making any eye contact at all, I spoke. The words seemed far, far away. It was almost as though another person said the words, 'Who are you, what do you want from me'? At first there was no reply and then the man spoke. It was a voice, much like my own, only older and more frail and sad, very sad. He asked me to think about my life and all that I had done with it. I was confused and taken aback by his request. The fear had slightly subsided and was replaced by bemusement. I heard the distant voice that was mine ask why he needed to know, only to hear his question repeated more forcefully and menacingly. I knew I had to think about what he wanted and answer as honestly as I could.
Once I had done so, I turned daringly towards him and saw for the first time his features close up. It was chilling. He looked so like me, only much older
and scarred. I felt myself become so disconcerted by the similarities between us both that I dared myself to ask him again who he was.
I was chilled to the bone to hear his explanation. 'I am you', he lamented. 'I am your conscience, here to remind you of all that you have done in your
life that you regret, and all you have done that you know you should not have'. He went on, 'There have been people in your life you have hurt and
situations that you have manipulated to your own ends. I am here to tell you, that all have a price to pay. You must reconcile all of this wrong doing
before you live the rest of your life'. I asked him how I should do this, and he turned towards me and for the first time looked at me deeply in the eyes. I felt myself being tapped and tugged and then I began to fall, twisting and reeling in mid air before I awoke with a thud and found myself lying on the cold, icy platform.
Turning to look behind me at the bench where my conscience had sat, I realised with relief that the whole thing was nothing more than a weird and
disturbing dream. Then reality struck. My train! I had missed it and needed to quickly check the timetable board for the next one. Rapidly scanning an
array of times and information, I was interrupted by someone behind me, asking for the time. The voice was so familiar, so real. It was him, I knew it
was. Standing stock still, I replied, 'Five minutes to midnight', and he replied, 'thank you, have a pleasant life'. Just as the train appeared down
the track, I turned to see the same deserted platform and bench where we had once sat. A mist settled on the scene as I boarded the train and let out a sigh of sheer relief as I headed for home.
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Weather for Wakefield
Wednesday 23 May 2012
Today
Sunny
Temperature: 13 C to 24 C
Wind Speed: 13 mph
Wind direction: North
Tomorrow
Cloudy
Temperature: 12 C to 24 C
Wind Speed: 12 mph
Wind direction: North east
