The Worm To The End of The World (1)

Why does it have to be a train?

Why does everyone think it would be a train that takes them to the end of the world? Somebody thought of that, and someone believed it, the green frog sang. Anyway, it wasn’t a train, and even if it was, how would anyone know where to wait? Of course, I was waiting for such a train at the most reasonable place for a train to be: a train station. Lo and behold, the person in charge of it all told me it was ridiculous to have come to the nearest train station instead of just waiting around where I laid dead. He said it took him an hour just to find me, and I said how should I know, I’ve never been dead before. He went over a list of things, personal information and such. Name? Doe, yeah my father’s a real jokester. Nickname? Spark. Marital status? Very recently divorced. It’s the sole reason I’m here. Children? One. Dietary restrictions? I get red when I drink alcohol. Hey, does EVERYONE get on the same train? I asked. It’s not a train, he said. What is it like, the end of the world? I asked. You get there when you get there. He answered. Well, I hope it’s better than the one I was in, at least. It’s what most people say. He said. Stand here. She already had to veered off course once. It was a giant worm. In some ways, I suppose a worm and a train are similar. Whoever it was must have caught a glimpse, then wrote about it. Others then thought why think of something else, it’s a great metaphor, and you can establish stories and conversations with a train. A train works well for stories. A worm, however, limits you to talk about yourself. You couldn’t even look outside, nor see other “passengers.” What if the end of the world is just… the end of the worm’s digestive tract? That’s apt, I thought. From shit we came, to shit we die, in shit we live. But no, the man assigned me to a house inside the creature, house number 4, one-story, one-bedded, one-kitchenetted, one-TVed, one-rugged, one-sofaed, one-tabled. Four walls. Not even a spare table to eat on. He gave me a key, but I doubt I would go out much. I mean, unlike houses in cities with planning and proper organizations, these living quarters sprouted from every angle of the worm’s stomach, stacked upon each other, or uncomfortably close to each other, some from the future with robotic arms welcoming you, others are thatch-roofed and made of clay. As one can expect, I didn’t do much inside the worm. I thought the trip was going to be quick, but the worm made A LOT of stops. During the day, I would watch TV, and at night, I sleep. The worm opened its mouth for around twelve hours a day, and closed them for the remaining twelve. I knew because I had a clock, and there wasn’t anything better to do than to measure how long there was sunlight. Some times, I felt myself afraid of what I might find at the end of the world. At those times, I was glad to feel the movement of the worm, by putting my ear close to the floor. I had a neighbor from House 521, which was opposite my own. He spoke a language I didn’t speak, and wore clothes I’ve never seen before, and could only be described as funny-looking. Instead of pants, there was a disk around his waist, from it tube of lights dangled and spun slowly. I could see his genital. Notice my stare, the man tapped the disk, and it spun faster, until his genital could no longer be seen, and he was wearing a sort of dress made from light. He offered his hand to me, but I refused. Once was enough. Anyone you touched in the worm, you shared each other’s past, living in their house, loving their children, kissing their wives. And whenever that happened, you were also harshly, vividly reminded of your own, so you didn’t forget who you were. I made that mistake with the man who took my details. I tried explaining that to 521, but he just smiled and insisted. Not one too great with confrontation, I took his hand. He was a professor about two centuries ahead of my time. He died after being infected by a parasite that took control of his brain. The parasite forced him to jump into a whale’s mouth to spread itself. I learned from last time that if I knocked myself unconscious, I could end the sequence early. I slammed my head into the wall when the professor was celebrating his 39th birthday, ironically when his daughter put the parasite inside the cake. When I came to, he was sitting by my side. I could now understand him. It was an unwritten rule that we didn’t ask one another about what we saw. The trip to the end of the world was now nicer with a friend. When the worm closed its maw, we cooked for each other exotic dishes from our time/country, or we talked, or made love. Unlike the professor, I led a normal life under any circumstances, so most of the stories about myself was made up. I told him about my green frogs and his lover the pig, or my orange talking cat that was always eating the lasagna I made. He told me about the meteor that brought the parasites to Earth, the gunning down of anyone that was infested, and how the infested was eating other humans because of a specific protein only found in humans. Then they throw themselves into whales or as big an animals they could. He missed his daughter.