I’m beginning to feel like Joseph Mitchell, a vintage writer for the New Yorker, not to ever put myself in his esteemed class, but because I too seem to collect characters to write about.
Check out his classic, Up In The Old Hotel, and you’ll see what I mean. 
My latest acquaintance is a lady called Molly who rides the number 6 train.
To first see her, she appears perfectly normal, clothes neatly pressed, hair stylishly cut into a bob, washed and combed…no shopping bags in sight except a BAM (Brooklyn Academy of Music) satchel resting on the seat beside her.
BUT THEN…
It starts with her choosing someone at random to address by saying something like, what a nice dress, or have we met? You look familiar. Hi, I’m Molly.
And then the demons take over…those little imps living lavishly inside what brain she has left.
She’ll start screaming telling you you’re all wrong, and how could you and you will certainly be going to hell by way of the crosstown bus. The person who just moments ago preened in a compliment is suddenly scared for their life.
I quietly observe wondering what happened that made her snap living life on a different level than the rest of us. A line anyone of us could cross due to some trauma yet to unfold.
Then the day came when she spoke to me. I just love your hair. It’s so French…so chic…so..and there it was…that surge of insanity simmering in the wings.
As she was all set to hurl hell at me, her eyes rolling back into her head, the doors opened stepping me out, leaving her mute screaming through the train’s window.
Imagine a film you didn’t much care for with the sound turned off as you get up to go get a beer.
SB
Nobody else will ever know the torment she suffers inside. Mental illness is a hidden pit, potentially in the path of each one of us. You don’t even need to stray, in order to fall. I hope Molly finds peace, but then, I hope we all do.
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I agree with you. Her kind of torment makes depression a day at the beach.
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Maybe. Maybe she’s blissfully unaware. The only truth is, we’ll never know.
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True.
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I shall put her in my daily prayers…
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A kind thing to say.
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Poor Molly. When I encounter tortured souls it always makes me sad and a little frightened for there but by the grace of God am I.
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Funny you should say that. That goes through my mind very often. Blessings come out front and center.
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Susannah, I love hearing about the characters you meet and observe so interestingly. It’s lucky that you knew what was coming after the compliment. Although mental illness is serious business, I couldn’t help but chuckle out loud at your description of a muted movie. Priceless!
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And the title of your piece is pure genius!
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I can’t hear very well to begin with, but she was very loud…all I saw was her mouth going as I stood safely on the platform.
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That kind of experience could be traumatizing, and yet, maybe not completely unexpected in New York City.
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Ah, I can hear the satisfaction in your voice. What I wonder is “was that enough for her or did some other poor person receive a lashing?”
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I don’t know being safely off the train. I haven’t seen her since. Maybe she switched subway lines.
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I was thinking, what would happen if someone did a pattern interrupt on Molly?https://www.google.com/url?q=http://m.youtube.com/watch%3Fv%3D-mV-UBaT0SI&sa=U&rct=j&ved=0CBsQtwIwAGoVChMIjs6N5Y7XyAIVQXc-Ch3–Am6&sig2=fJrLKAuUJqom4Wnm90sEaA&usg=AFQjCNHIoAWXtn5D6yIKMHnQ91JjAq37cQ
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