Word vomit

The train of doom.

All the bad days of my life combined don’t come close to this living hell.

I stare begrudgingly at the carefree couple sitting across from me on the train, clearly on their way to somewhere filled with laughter and friends and ice-cream that trickles down their hands as the sun shines down on them on this unseasonably warm May morning. We chug through the rolling English hills on the train of doom, each second bringing my mother and me closer to the truth.

The couple smile at each other and coo at their obnoxiously cute baby, as he attempts to engage me in a sly game of peek-a-boo. I close my eyes and lean my head against the window, exhausted from the 8-hour flight. My mom slides her hand into mine and squeezes it. She is still hopeful that her baby sister is alive.

My uncle writes to us: he doesn’t know how long she wasn’t breathing for. I wish I knew less about human physiology.

Choo-choo. Through the hills we go. Nothing feels real.

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