valentine

the hunk of metal wheezed into the station. it could barely be considered as a prize, but it was, in a twisted way. the metal prize was filled with sardines, and the treat for winning was being packed in along with it. the smell was overwhelmingly awful—warm body odor crawls all over your skin as you become one with the fish and step into the car. your step is more of a slide—the entire platform rushes towards it with you, seeking to become part of the growing pile of fish. is this what victory is like? becoming one with the fish? becoming a sardine packed in with the passengers? you’re smug that you’ve made it, that you’ve become one of the “victors,” but the smirk disappears when the influx of people do and the doors wheezed closed. the car rumbles as it pulls out of the station as swiftly as it came in. what it feels to be a winner.

fin.