Passengers

The passengers were tired of waiting on the platform of the provincial station, it was already late. They turned to the wall to gather their strength and hear, to hear the wheels of the train squealing on the rails from afar. And to watch the imaginary film on the wall. A silent film on burnt sepia, like an autumn layer of decayed leaves. Apparent ennui, blatant decadence. One of them opts for disillusionment, bending his shoulders, stretching his legs apart. Another respects the stylishness of his suit. Are they strangers, don't they have any relationship? Deception.

The shooting range that separates them betrays them. The pistols of a duel to the death are about to emerge from their pockets. Yet, the phoney, smartish benches of the small rural town will not absorb the blood. And it will only add some more stains on the filthy ground, taking away even the slightest hope that our passengers are robust fighters on the platform of an old-fashioned “Matrix”.

They shot simultaneously, no-one survived. The punishment for murder is the perpetual repetition of the last crucial moments. The boat to Acheron river copies the scenery of the murder scene. The murderers are riveted on this frozen time, eternally ready to take the same fatal decision, having come to terms with the idea of the inescapable. Only they don't see the wall on the screen any more, but the sickly fog over the still sea. And they fumble in their pockets, not for a gun, but for a coin they will give to the boatman who is standing by, gazing at his dominion.

Text by Eleni Konidari
Photographs: freeze frames from orphan super 8 film (property “of the anonymous”)
Translation by Christina Lissari