End of the line (standard:horror, 1738 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Jun 01 2011	Views/Reads: 3126/1967	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
As he pokes his nose into other people's business, will he end up regretting it?

The book on speaking Italian was of no interest to him, despite looking
at it with apparent interest. He was in fact, surreptitiously looking 
through the shelves of books in the library at the computers where he 
had a good view of what people were looking at on the internet or just 
in general. Michael Booth was 62 years of age, and looked quite a few 
years older. He had grey, wavy hair, and was fairly plump. His belt was 
always straining at the last notch, and he always told himself he 
should get down the gym and try and slim down, but he always made 
excuses not to, because deep down, he didn't really care. 

Around this area where he lived, he had garnered quite an unwelcome
reputation of being rather nosy. He was always poking his nose into 
other people's business, asking personal questions and never saying 
anything of his own affairs. It was a habit, and he knew it, and it was 
also another thing he didn't care about. He enjoyed it, and stood here 
in the library at the languages section was a good spot to spy on 
people on the computers even though each of them was segregated by a 
wooden partition. Mostly people were always on facebook, or reading 
emails or playing games. No-one really looked at anything nefarious, as 
he knew the libraries had a strong firewall. Still though, he could see 
clearly enough what they were looking at, and even read the text. 

One in particular, near the wall, had caught his attention. The man sat
there looked like the type of scruffy individual for whom life had 
pressed a considerable weight, literally, as his shoulders were slumped 
forward, his hair was sparse and thin, and his clothes looked to have 
been taken directly from the waste bin, all crumpled and torn. From the 
back, Michael could tell he was around half his age. He'd never seen 
him before, and could see he was engaged in some sort of email 
conversation. ‘Like I said,' the man typed, ‘If this is how it is going 
to be, then there is no point me being here' He clicked ‘send', and 
Michael read another page of Italiano before seeing that there was a 
reply. ‘Look Scott, I don't know how many times I have to tell you 
before it sinks in. I'm happy here. It would not have worked between 
us. Just get over it'. He began to type a response: ‘Don't you know how 
hard it is for me? I can't take anymore of this. Please, a thousand 
times. Take me back' Send. Michael managed another half page of 
uninteresting waffle on Italian before another response came through. 
‘Scott, we were never a couple, and just to appease your confused 
brain. If you think we are couple, then we're finished, and that's 
that'. He audibly sighed, his shoulders slumped even further, and for a 
few moments he just stared at the keyboard, as though his batteries had 
ran out. He began typing again. ‘If you don't get back with me. I'm 
going to do something stupid. I'm going to leave this library, go 
straight to the railway bridge, and throw myself under the next train, 
and guess what? It'll be all your fault' He clicked ‘send', and a 
response came quickly. ‘No you won't' was all it said. The man stood up 
and walked quickly to the exit. Michael realised he was only one who 
knew about it. Other people were busy clicking away on their games or 
reading papers. Scott left, and Michael was still stood there, 
contemplating. Would he do it? Is he going straight to the bridge now? 
He turned and quickly headed to the exit, leaving the book on a 
self-service machine as he passed. 

Outside, he spotted the man marching up the road towards a main row of
shops. He hurriedly followed, sure that he could keep a fairly safe 
distance away without arousing suspicion. 

He watched as he entered a shopping precinct, so hurried to find him,
and saw him still striding intently onwards. Michael guessed that even 
if he was walking next to him, he wouldn't be noticed. 

He left another entrance and walked a long road towards a bridge
spanning a motorway. Michael, although still keeping his distance, 
found he was getting more and more out of breath, and thought that 
perhaps the man was simply walking off his anger, and was probably on 
his way home, but still, he persisted, and walked onto the bridge as 
the other man left it. 

They walked along two more winding roads and found themselves on the
edge of a housing estate, where another bridge crossed a railway where 
the trains speeded along, bound for London, or Glasgow. Michael stepped 
onto the bridge, only to see that the man had stopped midway, and was 
looking over the wall at the tracks. He watched as he clambered up and 
sat with his legs dangling over. He also watched as he continued, and 


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