The train plods along the track languidly as if it knows I am late and insists on making me as tardy as possible. Every few stops, it pauses with the conductor claiming ‘We need to even out the service’.
My eyes ogle the map above me; I've been participating in a staring competition with it since I boarded. My destination is further down the line than I had estimated.
I shuffle in my seat, removing my coat and folding it haphazardly in my lap. My pits are damp, who knows if there are visible sweat patches. I can almost feel the steam radiating off of my body.
I risk a glance at my watch. 15 minutes late. So far.
My body vibrates, my stomach turns and I'm clutching my coat for dear life.
I unbutton the sleeves of my white cotton blouse, desperate to welcome air any way I can.
I need a distraction.
I reach into my leather satchel, plunging my hand into the abyss I pull out crumpled papers that have everything I need to know for my first day written in neat cursive swirls.
My clammy hands mix with the ink on the paper causing it to bleed in a horrific manner. I try to focus on the first few lines but the damage is done.
My jittering knee causes my bag to fall on the floor, partially landing on the feet of the person next to me.
As I remove it from the ground, I mutter an apology at the gentleman who grunts in response.
‘The next station is Square Lane. Alight here for the Rubber Factory and Whale District.’
Thank goodness. Two more stops. Almost there.
My legs continue to move without my permission, while my stomach bubbles alarmingly.
I scan around for another distraction, this time in my surroundings.
The posters above the map look pristine and polished, all advertising new and ‘exciting’ offers for Harvest Day. I had forgotten that Harvest Day was next week. I began to plot out a mental shopping list, reminding myself of the events of last year. Goose eggs, bread and sugar. I’ll ask Sophia to buy them on her way home from school tomorrow.
My feast must rival that of the Jones’ last year.
Margrethe had crispy potatoes roasted in goose fat, a succulent beef brisket, and the most awe-inspiring creme bruleé fountain. I didn't even know that dessert was possible. The way it created a controlled stream of goodness that when it cooled down caramelised spontaneously on your plate was immaculate.
I pray to the heavens that this job pays well.
1 more stop.
I fan myself with the crumpled mess, hoping my pit stains will dry before I reach the building. Reluctantly, I whisk my coat on, standing up and making my way towards the doors.
The train jumps around, warning me to hold on. I decide I don't need to; I just need to balance myself on my feet and allow the rhythm of the train and my body to become one.
I straighten myself securing my satchel across my body, hoping I still arrive looking somewhat presentable.
The train rocks violently, my legs flail from beneath me and I stumble back, snatching at thin air, falling back on a soft surface.
A faint groan emerges from behind me.
Rocking forward, I pick myself up and turn around.
A lady that appears to be slightly younger than me, meets my gaze with fire in her eyes.
“What's the big idea?” She spits out.
“I'm so sorry,” I whisper. “I lost my balance.”
“Hold on to the ruddy handrail! That's what it’s there for.”
I stutter, trying to find my words yet all that comes out is another whispered ‘Sorry’.
I reach out a hand that she slaps away before she positions herself upright with the assistance of the mustard yellow handrail.
She winces as she stands, clutching her side.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” she hisses, reaching under her green jumper.
Her face flushes a deep crimson, shuddering as she withdraws her hand.
It emerges a bright red.
“You ripped my stitches.” She swallowed.
My mind begins to shut down as panic sets in.
My face burns, my body quivers and my stomach is in my throat.
Oh God.
She's bleeding.
“D-Do you want me to have a look?”
I close the space between us, grabbing the pole she is gripping tightly.
She shakes her head, wisps of black hair cling to her clammy forehead.
My heart throbs in my chest and every breath feels like it requires effort.
I glance down the train, scanning the rest of the passengers. There are a few scattered throughout, either reading the paper, deep in conversation or immersed in their smartphone. No one seems to be aware of what is going on.
I snap my attention back to the woman. Her face is towards the floor but I can see how hard she is clenching her eyes.
I gawk at where her hand rests and I can't stop looking.
A dark patch on her jumper seems to grow the longer I stare.
Oh God.
My body vibrates as the train screeches against the tracks, jostling us around again but my eyes remain fixated on the girl.
“Are you okay?”
My voice is hoarse as I push out those words. Stupid words that I know the answer to.
Her body sways, and I grab her shoulder in an attempt to keep her balanced.
“Don't touch me!” she screams. Veins bulge on her temple, her eyes are bloodshot and the stain continues to grow on her jumper.
“I just want to help.” I don't know if she hears me. I barely hear me.
“You've ruined everything.” she chokes out gutturally. Blood is on her lips. The only splash of colour on her face. Her skin resembles a sheet of paper with red ink splattered across. Only, this isn't ink. It is blood.
“Do you need me to call somebody?” I don't know what to do.
Her eyes flutter closed as her body begins to droop.
The train shakes and the girl's knees buckle causing her to fall, hitting her head on her descent.
Oh God.
I kneel beside her, shaking her arms, and her shoulders. The girl’s face is in my hands.
I am cradling her head in my hands.
Gently tapping her face, I try to speak but nothing comes out.
Her cheeks are damp. These are not her tears.
I hold her as the train begins to steady.
My hand finds its way to her torso, lifting her jumper. All I see is a heaving wound decorated with scarlet thread.
Her hands are cold in mine. I push up her sleeve, placing 2 fingers over her wrist.
Oh God.
“The next station is Calton Green. Alight here for the Mass Business Conglomerate District.”
Oh God.
