A Story A Day. Story 287 of 365: Push.

Rush hour was probably the worst time to get on the tube, specially if you had all the time of the world on your hands. However, that was exactly what Mark was doing at that moment, as he had been doing for more than a month. It was a rainy day, which only meant more people crammed into an overcrowded wagon, plus wet umbrellas. It was perfect, Mark thought. The tension in the air, the grim mood floating around, it was the ripe occasion.

Mark had been planning it for a long time. He was a lonely man who found himself even lonelier when he lost his job and his girlfriend. If he had gone to a psychiatrist he would have probably been diagnosed with a wide spectrum of mental illnesses. Yet, he had never gone and he thought his mood swings were normal. After that low in his life he started being paranoid, convinced someone was surveiling each one of his moves. 

That day he was ready to unravel the plan he had hatched. His eyes starwd at the monitor, nervously. Two more stops and hell would break loose. He tapped his foot, the subway was running late, he was sure the government was behind it, that they knew what he was about to do. Mark was standing cornered next to a door, and every time people got in or out they would push and step on him. One more stop. Only one more. He was counting down the seconds, his thumb on the button, waiting for the doors to open. He felt the explosives belt against his skin. He was sweating, both because he was nervous and because of the heat. The doors opened, and as they did a stampede of people battled to get through the narrow door. Mark found himself pushed out of the wagon. In a blink of an eye he was alone on the platfprm, the remote lost somewhere put of his reach.