The Train Back

by Alexander Te Pohe
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Content warning: misgendering, body horror

The train coasts through the night. At times there is only the carriage – a rectangle of light gliding through the darkness. The only passengers are me and a man sitting adjacent. He’s white, mid-thirties, and he wears a dark blue suit. His short blonde hair is slicked back and his blue eyes trace his phone screen as if he’s reading.

            My face hovers in the glass beside his head. I look like a ghost, fading at the edges. He grins and I feel a stab of jealousy. He fits so easily into this world. People see him and think man.

            Water seeps through my pink jumper. My pulse quickens. I press my hand to my ribcage and take a deep breath. This isn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not on the train when I can’t duck away.

            I close my eyes and try to control my racing heart. Home isn’t far. I just have to keep it together for a little longer.

            “Are you okay miss?”

            My body starts to shake. The man keeps talking, keeps misgendering me, but all I hear is a high-pitched whistle-like scream.

            I open my eyes. He’s standing over me. He looks concerned. Like I’m some sort of lost lamb. Or a child. Not an adult. Not a man. Just a curious and intangible thing.

            Something churns within my chest. A literal whirlpool of rage. I want so badly to slap him. But when I open my mouth there’s a gurgle in my throat and salty sea water spews from my lips.

            He stumbles back, his face somewhere between shock and horror.

            My heart pounds as it circles round and round. I force my mouth shut to stop the flood, but gashes open on my chest, back, and right hip.

            The man stares at me as water pools around his feet, his face somehow paler than before.

            The train is slowing.

            We’re nearly there.

            I bolt from the carriage, ignoring the shouts of “miss!” and “ma’am!”. I need to get away. Somewhere. Anywhere.

            My car is in sight: a yellow Beetle. I reach into my bag and my hand passes through my keys. I bring my palm to my face. It’s now made of deep blueish-green water and within are tiny rainbow coloured fish. I try to cry out, but only miniature starfish bubble out.  

            Someone behind me says “miss!”. I start running. My shoes hit the pavement first. Then my bag. My clothes slide right off me as my entire body changes into water.

            My vision unfurls in every direction: I see cars passing behind me, the footpath ahead, the ants below, the streetlights above. It’s as if my body is one unblinking eye. Currents flow within me and my surroundings come in and out of focus.

            I’m not sure where I’m going or where I am. All I can think about is that man saying miss. The word hits my forehead and splinters into an ache that cuts right through me. I scream silently: at him, at this world, at myself, at every school, every hospital, every business, and every person that has erased me. I could fit into this world if only they let me.

            My house shimmers before me. I try to knock on the door, but my hand falls apart.

            I scream and scream and scream, but no sound comes out.

            This isn’t fair!

            And I’m so fucking tired of it all.

            I fall to my knees on the welcome mat.

            My body shrinks.

            Bits of me seep into the porch and the bricks of the house.

            Other parts drift into a cloud

            The door stretches upwards. The handle unreachable.

            Soon there will be nothing left.

            And then where will I be?

            When I came Out, I knew life was going to be hard. But I didn’t think that every part of this world would turn its back on me.

            My vision scatters. I see the doorhandle and myself from every angle: a small body on the brink of collapse.

            “Rain?” says a voice.

            I turn around. My mother stands over me. She doesn’t look scared, just sad. And her eyes are full of love.

            She touches my cheek. I return instantly: bones, muscle, veins, organs, flesh and last, my heart.

            She throws her coat around my naked form. I’m small, maybe five years old. My body is the same as before, but there’s a sense of lightness, as if my soul has shed its sorrows.

            “My little boy,” says Mum with a smile. “Shall we try again?”

            “Yes, Mum,” I say.

            The two of us go in together.

            All I can think is at last.