Donald’s End by Roger Haydon

You’re hiding, escaping the defining judgement of the People. Here, in this gloomy corner, you’re finally impaled on the spike of the vengeance you pleaded for. What would your poor dead Daddy have said?

‘Son, you ain’t nothing but a born loser.’ That’s what he would have said.

You’re sitting on a pale blue plastic chair at a pale blue plastic table in a pokey refreshment franchise in a dark and draughty railway station. It’s near the end of a bitter cold winter’s working day. Tonight, you’re waiting for the last train out of here to some remote destination. Right now, you can’t manage even a shred of righteous anger, all around you there is only indifference.

Your vista includes a vending machine packed with combinations of water, sugar, salt, preservatives and fake flavourings. On the stained pale blue wall there’s a poster for life insurance plus another for retirement condominiums in the deep south in the sun – you’ll not be going there, not now. The video display by the door switches between departures, arrivals and a screen wishing you a great day. You’re finishing your third cup of coffee because you need to stay awake or you’ll miss your train. You’ve long since abandoned the sandwich made from limp greyish-white cardboard, margarine and a sheet of pale yellow cheese that you bought a couple of hours ago.

Soon, the young guy with the beard and glasses behind the counter, with his head in a book and making notes, will ask everybody to leave. That’s you and that couple on stools over there by the counter ignoring each other, you will all have to go. He will lock up and go home probably to his family, his studies and a future.

The law has been despatched to bring you to account, it’s all over the news. Your erstwhile opponents would rather not dirty their hands with you any more than they can help. After all, as you’ve so often pointed out, they’ve got grubby secrets of their own to attend to.

But you’re not running from the law or from them. No, what you’re really running from are the hordes who once jostled in admiring chanting crowds, called out your name, believed your every word, wanted to make the country great again. Those multitudes have now turned and are baying for your blood, seeking retribution for the empty nothing you sold them. You betrayed their trust, a fatal error. You were warned.

Now, the refreshment franchise has closed and you’re out in the cold on the platform and it’s starting to snow. Your train pulls in and you don your signature baseball cap, put on your shades, pick up your two plastic carrier bags and old man shuffle on board.

You huddle against the window in a corner seat and wait. Your train does not depart. You’re stuck here, the engine has failed.

What would Daddy have said? You know.

Roger was born in London and has lived in the North East of England for nearly 50 years. He retired in 2012 after a mixed career including, latterly, senior management the National Health Service. Now he writes flash fiction, some short stories and the occasional poem and has been published online. He also supports workshops for younger children in writing stories, volunteers as a gardener and has an allotment on which he grows fruit, vegetables and wild flowers.

Image – Nighthawks by Edward Hopper 1942 – commons.wikimedia

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