Sold Out

By Daria V. Diachkova

“All first-class tickets are sold out.”

You blink.

The grey-haired cashier shakes her head and purses her lips. “All first-class tickets in that direction are sold out, ma’am.”

“But I wanted to…” You step closer. “I need to…”

The cashier lowers the shutters in your face. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but all tickets are sold out.” She retreats deeper into her booth.

And you’re left alone at the railway station.

“Yeah…” You trail off, stepping backwards away from the booth. “I understand. Sorry—sorry for that, just… just lost in thought.”

It’s late in the evening, and the last passenger rushes by. He clutches his worn fedora every time the wind tears at it. You wander after him and watch the funny man stumble down the street. Every time he grabs his hat, his briefcase slips from under his arm, and as he grasps for it, the wind howls again.

You laugh under your breath. He’s just too helpless. Clumsy. Pathetic.

“Loser,” you whisper, before you can help it. Then you swallow hard. Where had that word come from? You hadn’t meant to say it.

You ponder that fact as you leave.

You return in a week.

The best part of having worked so hard to provide for yourself—harder than the rest—is that you’ve made it. You hardly have to work at all anymore. You can go anywhere. Do anything. Except—

“All first-class tickets are sold out, ma’am.”

The cashier is different. This one fakes a smile and keeps brushing her messy bangs from her eyes. She’s young and naive, and you hate her high-pitched voice.

“Well, how about second class then?” You inwardly cringe at your own question. Who rides in second class?

“All second-class tickets in that direction are sold out too, ma’am.”

You huff, roll your eyes, and spin around.

The girl calls out as you stride off. “Sorry, ma’am! And goodbye, ma’am!”

You don’t bother answering.

One week later, you’re back again.

You stomp up to the counter. “One ticket!” You growl and slam the note onto the counter.

Metal clatters under your palm, and the cashier gasps. You hear the teen girl in the line just behind you shuffle back.

It’s the old cashier again, and she stares you down before muttering, “All tickets are sold out.”

You throw your arms up and scoff. “What about economy seats? There must be some third-class tickets left!”

The cashier doesn’t bat an eye. “No. Sorry, ma’am.”

Your anger rips loose. “I need that ticket! I’ll pay anything—do you hear me? Anything! Call somebody. Make somebody return theirs! I must have that ticket! I must remember—”

“Next, please!” the cashier calls over your rant.

You fall silent only because it’s been a long time since somebody dared to interrupt you.

The teen girl circles you at some distance, her shoulders hunched and her whole body trembling. But she still steps in front of you, between you and the ticket booth.

“What’s the point?” you grumble and take a few steps back even though you can’t quite make yourself leave. “Why call the next one if you’ve got no tickets left?”

Nobody answers. The girl puts a violin case over the counter.

“What’s in there?” You sneer. “Coins? Better give that up, Doll, and find a real job. It’s not that nice begging in the streets when the snow comes.”

The teen girl laughs like she hasn’t heard you at all. She waves to the cashier, pulls the violin case back over her shoulder, and hums to herself as she walks away. You see a ticket clutched between her long, pale fingers.

“You said there were none!” In a few strides, you slam your palms to the glass of the cashier’s booth.

“All tickets sold out, ma’am,” replies the cashier.

You gasp for breath. “You’ve just sold that girl a ticket!”

You point in the direction she left, but you can’t see her—the girl’s small frame has melted into the fog.

“There was a ticket left for that girl, ma’am,” replies the cashier calmly.

“I must…”

“Not for you, ma’am,” interrupts the cashier. “I’m sorry.”

She’s not sorry. Her expression remains glued to her face. Eyes cold, unmoving.

“I n-need…” You crumble to your knees and bury your face in your hands. “I need that ticket. I need to remember what it was.”

“All tickets to childhood are sold out for you, ma’am.”

You sob. Normally, you don’t cry—no, that human impulse was forgotten long ago. You needed to be strong, needed to be ruthless. Unfeeling. You started from the gutters and climbed the career ladder like no other. Shoved your childhood dream away to wait until you had enough money to enjoy your life, worry free. Now you’ve got the money, the time… but you’ve forgotten what the dream was.

You only remember them saying, “One won’t make a living with that.”

“W-h… hy?” you whisper and clutch your knees to your chest.

The cashier doesn’t answer as she lowers the shutters. But she doesn’t need to answer—you know it yourself. For selling your dream.

“Sold out,” echoes the cashier before her booth melts into the clouds.

Can you guess which song from the 1960's inspired this story? Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Daria V. Diachkova is a writer from Moscow, Russia. She’s into urban fantasy and aspires to share her take on the world and to unravel its mysteries. Daria keeps the “V” from her patronymic in her name to honor her father, alias the only one to support her when she did run away from home to pursue her own dream. Her earlier work has been published in the BALLOONS Lit. Journal.

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