And this is what it sounds like.
"Olesya placed her feet into hollows, retracing the steps at a light trot. Absorbed in this meticulous task, she didn’t notice coming upon the nose of the engine. A heap of scarves lay tangled in the trackbed. No, not scarves.
Every hair stood up on Olesya’s neck. She forced herself up the scree, pebbles rolling underfoot. A white arm lay etched against the black of the sleeper like it was drawn with chalk. A cheap digital camera gripped in fingers stiff with rigor mortis.
Lyuba’s pashmina scarf obscured her face, and she appeared to have curled up for a bit of an afternoon dose, cozy, wrapped up in layers of clothes like in blankets, a pile of quilted patched-up blankets.
“Lyuba!” Olesya knew it was useless, then why did she keep calling her, waiting for her to shake off sleep, sit up and rub her eyes, and ask what the hell she was doing there, on the rails by the train, in the cold. But Lyuba didn’t stir, not when Olesya flicked the scarf off, not when she looked into her open eyes, glassy, turned up at the sky, a faint smile on her lips, like she saw something there, something she wanted to take a picture of. Perhaps a cloud, perhaps a beautiful latticed snowflake. If not for her pallor, that flat shade of grey, if not for the puddle of black gore oozing from under her head.
She was dead, struck by the locomotive. It knocked her off her feet, not too hard. She would’ve been okay, but there was a fastening bolt with a beveled nut on top. It got loose over the years of constant vibration, forced itself up and out of the socket, and it sat there hidden in the snow, crooked, and it met Lyuba’s temple with cold calm, and it pierced her like a stitching awl would puncture a canvas. Even the sound it made was the same, a small rip. And that was that."
Photo by Ballerina Project