Ron was sitting on the bench, cold and wet. The rain hadn’t subsided, haha surprise, it’s not like the weather channels get it right anyway, so why was he expecting it to be any different now? I’m a complete idiot for listening to him, aren’t I—sitting on this painfully uncomfortable bench in this filthy place…  

But of course, Ron was lying to himself. As always. Not about the railway station, no, that truly was filthy. Not about the weather either. It was cold, dull and gray, and he didn’t even have his jacket on. What he was lying about was that there was anything resembling even a semblance of choice in him being there.

There wasn’t.

He was forced to be at that bench at that very time (clearly he was ahead of schedule, but hey—it’s not like he had any say in that either, eh?).

Anyway, so on that wet wooden bench Ron sat, looking thoroughly ill at ease with himself and the world around him. His right leg seemed to have taken a completely new life of its own, and simply would not stop shaking, a mini earthquake of sorts. Not that he even cared. He was busy chewing his blackened and dirt harbouring fingernails into miserable stumps and glaring into the hazy rain.

People passing by that bench covered their noses in barely concealed disgust. His hair lay in desolately lonely clumps on his crooked head, his beard was long, unruly and looked like an untidy bird’s nest and his eyes seemed to have sunken deep into his face, giving it a thoroughly ghoulish appearance.

For another ten minutes he waited, until patience finally ran out (and febrile courage took its place). He got up like a broken man twice his age, and took a short timid step when all of a sudden-

“HEY RON! Where on earth do you think you’re going, mate?”

A shockingly firm hand held his weak shoulder in vice-like grip.

Rolling his eyes upward to non-existent heavens he thought, Just when I thought I had the strength to escape…

“Come, let’s sit, shall we?”, the stranger said.

And clearly, it was not a question.

Returning his wet rear to its previous position Ron eyeballed his new companion with raw hatred.

In reply, Orlando returned a confident, almost cocky smile. Much like those toothpaste commercials where the model’s teeth sparkle like celestial stars. So disgustingly perfect!

“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long, Ron.”

Like he cared.

Ron grunted in reply.

A few minutes passed in silence, both engaged in deep thought. Two men perched on a wet bench, one sitting confidently, his legs spread apart and his arms reaching along the length of the bench. The other, curled up within himself, trying to disappear within himself. Embittered and tired.

“Train should be here any moment now”, said Orlando.

No reply. Until:

“I…don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay. Here.”, Ron muttered incoherently.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong Ron. You don’t have a choice. Besides, it’s too late, train’s already here.”

Again that damned surety of manner, that composure of being, that Ron found so repulsive. He glared at him with his one good eye, and then looked past him at the foreboding sight of the black train that was just pulling into the station. Ink black coach spraying dove white smoke into the damp sky.

Orlando stood up and offered a gloved hand to his companion.

“Well, this is it.”

Even though his mind rebelled against getting up, his body obeyed the command. A dog listening to its master.

He gingerly picked his bindle up and hobbled to the carriage door without looking back.

Orlando wiped his hands together. A strange look of almost-relief had appeared on his face.

Ron had just put one foot on the carriage step when he looked around at the station. No one was boarding the train. No one but him that is.

And that’s when it hit him. Smacked him right in the face. His reason for being here, boarding this train lit up in his foggy head like a bright lightbulb, and he turned around swiftly.

Orlando’s clear face grew just a tad paler. “What are you doing? Get back on!”

There was no mocking civility to his voice anymore. In fact, if one paid close attention, they could sense the beginning of a hint of panic in his tone.

Ron dropped his bag which wasn’t so heavy anymore. He seemed to have gained strength in so short a time. And confidence too. Suddenly he loomed large before Orlando who’d begun to perspire visibly.

“I’m never coming back am I? This is a one-way ticket to absolutely nowhere—a special chariot for a solitary passenger!”, in a gruff voice he spat out the words. And walked menacingly towards his apparent oppressor.

Orlando was silent. A long silence hung in the air, solid and frozen.

“You, you do know that this is for the best, don’t you? There is only going to be peace this way…”

“See, the thing is—I don’t care. I don’t care at all. I LIKE BEING HERE.”

In a measured manner, Orlando spoke: “If you’d cared, we’d never have been here at all, Ron.” He said his name with melancholy, the way one remembers a once-dear friend whom time and fate have moulded into a completely unrecognizable stranger.

For a second Ron paused. Then, he started advancing upon Orlando in a brutish fashion. Orlando took a slight half step backwards just as the train whistle went off.

CHOO CHOO!

Taking advantage of the shrill suddenness of the piercing sound, Orlando leapt towards Ron, trying to force him back into the train. Ron swayed backwards but held his ground. The two grappled with each other, neither willing to budge an inch. Immovable force against immovable force.

Ron then seemed to slowly gain an upper hand with his bare feet advancing, Orlando’s shiny leather boots receding. The Titanic against the fateful glacier.

Meanwhile, in the background the train had slowly begun to move. Orlando noticed this with the corner of his eyes, the bulk of his attention being taken up by, well, Ron.

“No! You are…GOING TO GO!”

And just as the glacier arrested the ill-fated ship, Orlando dug right into his heels and stopped Ron from pushing him backwards.

Grunts, sweat, and clenched teeth. They almost looked like twins. Two halves of a whole. The train had begun to pick up pace, noisily clanking past.

Ron, exulting in his apparent victory, howled like a bloodthirsty wolf in Orlando’s face. “Ow ow OWWWW!”

A big mistake.

This momentary shift in concentration from grappling to yelling proved to be his downfall. His foe managed to use this blatant mockery to summon the very vestiges of his strength to push him into the penultimate carriage door as the train ghosted past.

The confused and shocked expression on Ron’s face as he flew backwards and the doors automatically shut, fossilising him in a metal grave, engraved itself in Orlando’s memory, serving as a caution, a reminder of grave things past and the dangers that lurked if he didn’t exercise vigilance.

Like an unbidden song the words, But know this, that if the master of the house had known what hour the thief would come, he would have watched and not allowed his house to be broken into floated in his head, dancing, twirling around in the interior of his skull. A sweet and chilling warning.

The train had left the station. All of a sudden, time had resumed her dull, plodding pace. The station seemed to have been refilled with its familiar populace, dust, dirt, noise and chaos.

Orlando dusted his gloves against each other. His jacket was stained with sweat, and his face bore a weary but relieved expression. He picked his bag up and walked jauntily towards the exit. His form grew diaphanous in the misty air until it disappeared completely.

A new chapter begun, Old had given rise to New.

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