Published in Frazzle (by Bowen Street Press) (2023).

Won Second Place (Category C) in the Monash Short Story Writing Competition (2023).

The scent of musk and old sweat wafts off the stained seats. My shoes stick to the rattling vinyl floor as if they are coated in glue.

My foot taps; up, down, up, down. I feel an elastic resistance as my heel peels off the vinyl. I’m trapped here, stuck like an insect in a Venus flytrap. I’m fully aware that this feeling is unreasonable—but the pounding of my heart and the sweat beading on my palms and this unbearable pressure on my chest fervently disagrees.

Home. Home is safe. I will be fine at home. Home, which is approximately 65 minutes away (10 minutes on this blasted tram, 40 minute train, 15 minute walk).

My gaze darts past the yellow walls and filthy windows. There’s a person floating behind the glass, staring at me. It’s an ashen-faced woman; young, 20s, wide fear-stricken eyes. Droplets of sweat circle her forehead like a lopsided tiara.

I think that woman might be me.

Much later, having finally given into the GP appointments and the therapy and the medication, I would spend hours agonising over every detail of that day—that first attack—wondering where it’d gone wrong. Where it’d escalated.

Was it the law degree I wasn’t sure I wanted? The new Big Four corporate gig? The coffee I’d picked up en route to class?

Was it the funeral? This constant hollowness eating at my insides? The grief?

The tram shudders to a stop. Nausea builds in my throat; I’m choking on it. The tin walls are pushing in—closer closer closer. Something deep down swells to the surface—a primal, desperate fear—and it propels me to my feet.

I need to get out.

I stagger to the front of the tram. Beyond the fogged up windscreen, the wet asphalt is bathed crimson. The tram has stopped at a red light and the doors are shut.

The driver is a hazy silhouette behind a scratched pane of plastic. I rap on it sharply.

“Please, can you open the doors?”

I’d gotten the news at a picnic in Jells Park. We’d been sitting on the grass playing cards when my phone rang.

I’d expected it, of course. But I hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

The cards on our picnic blanket had scattered in a stray breeze. My friends squealed with laughter as they scrambled to catch the fluttering pieces.

The tram driver keeps his eyes on the road. “Sorry miss, I can’t let you out.”

I’ll die. I know I’ll die if I don’t get off. 

“Please–” I gasp. The nausea has expanded like a balloon, pressing up against the back of my mouth. “I– I’m really sick.”

I can feel the eyes of the other passengers—their gazes slide down my neck and stick to it, acidic. I’m dying but I don’t want to make a fuss.

The tram driver finally glances at me, unconcerned. “Sorry miss. You’ll have to wait till the next stop.”

I clutch the hand rail as the tram rattles on. My grip is so hard I scratch off flakes of gaudy yellow paint.

Get out get out get out now now NOW–

I’d returned to my mum’s childhood home for the funeral.

I’d taken my Zoom classes at the antique dining table, staring at a staticky grid of faces as our cheap Internet plan did battle with the whims of reception. I’d written a string of angry emails protesting the faculty’s rejection of my deferral application while my tutor droned on in the background.

Grandpa had loved this table. His house was full of treasures like it—an old record player, a set of Japanese wood panels, a classic ’70s Mini Cooper, a rack of Elvis tapes.

I’d stood at that table when I threw my phone across the room and screamed at my mum the day we’d buried him.

The tram finally stops. The doors fold inward. I nearly take my own fingers off gripping it in my rush down the steps.

The smell of cigarette smoke slaps me in the face. The pavement is slippery with rain. I try to breathe in the icy air but there’s not enough of it.

Even with my vision beginning to blur I recognise the street—I’m two blocks from the train station. Fight-or-flight kicks into full drive, yanking me along the footpath like a puppet jerking on its strings.

My knees feel wobbly. I want nothing more than to keel over on the slick pavement; crumple inwards like a wet wad of tissue. But I fear that if I do I might never get up again.

Months later I would ask my therapist what had caused that first attack—the one which set in motion a countless string of more; which made me too afraid to leave my house for weeks.

She would blink, and say carefully, “There can be…many factors as to what triggers a mental health disorder. Stress, living conditions, genetic predisposition… Also trauma. Tragedy. Emotional exhaustion.

“We all desire certainty. But we can’t always be sure of everything. I doubt you’ll ever know for sure why it happened to you.”

I nod. Perhaps I did agree. Or perhaps I already knew.

My fingers are numb as I fumble with my phone. There’s a crack down the middle of the screen which scrapes my skin when I put it to my ear. 

It rings and I walk and walk and pray that someone answers.

The echoing ringtone gives way to a soft click. “Hello?”

“Mum, mum–”

“Is everything alright? Dinner is ready–”

“No. Yes. Um– Can we talk? I know it’s weird but I just want to talk.”

“Okay?” I hear the concern in her voice, but she doesn’t question me. 

I can see the lights of the train station just ahead, glowing like a beacon in some apocalyptic landscape. I lurch towards it; I’m a drowning man grasping for a lifeline.

“Tell– Tell me about the Mini.”

“Ah yes, I know you were upset we wanted to sell it so we’ve found a cousin who said–”

I’m only thirty steps away. Twenty. Ten. I’m almost there. Almost there.

Mum’s voice continues to ramble in my ear. It’s the sound of home, the sound of safety. Moisture stings my eyes and it takes me a moment to realise I’m crying.

I breathe in. Air fills my lungs.

And out.