Chapter 1
7.07am
The wind from the approaching tram fought vigorously against her sticky hair. A few rogue strands were successfully blown from her temple, but the rest were kept tied to her messy bun—if a "bun" was a hamburger engulfed in the oily grease of a dead panda, tied together with something that looked suspiciously like a black lace stocking.
The sunglasses were on, low. Hanging on for dear life to the bridge of her nose.
It was a grey, cloudy morning. The eyewear suggested that either she was a high-level spy disguised as a mundane astronomical disaster, or she had been crying and trying to hide the evidence of glaring red eyes and whatever wreckage lay behind them.
The world would never know that the suspected eyes were actually still fused together, desperately milking the last remnants of rest that the darkness of her bedroom had failed to provide. Nobody was going to know. Except, they were going to know. How would they know? She told herself they wouldn’t. She was wrong, they definitely knew.
The hiss of the opening doors sounded like a threat, nudging our unsuspecting main character from her shallow slumber. She walked in. Filled with unearned confidence.
Tripped on the gap.
Recovered. It was fine. No casualties, no injuries. It was just her dignity advertising a discount.
The carriages all looked the same, the metal boxes that would deliver the army of educated soldiers to their earthly mortal bound cages.
That one was quite a mouthful, wasn't it? Try not to do it too often.
Big windows were placed to project the fleeting images of freedom and sanity. It might be there for safety reasons, but who would need safety to begin with? And this option has more prose.
Why did they call it a carriage? Because you should be committed to it until death do us part.
That's marriage. That was a different genre.
Miss Carrie, then. Bradshaw? Also a different genre.
And the seat. Oh, the seat. If you have spare change, please donate it to —censored—.
It never had this kind of trial before. The weight of somebody who seemed to have the integrity of a collapsing sand castle—heavy. Full of sins and farts—one that she just released between the busy clacking noise of high heels and Oxfords.
The sneakers she wore felt like a stabbing betrayal—a mirror of audacity—completing the full tactical ensemble of the infamous long coat, a crumpled white blouse, grey cotton pencil skirt with the mismatch of her green and yellow socks. It was the embodiment of the day itself. A pale blue—almost white—sky, with its grey clouds hovering over a stepped-on banana peel and its descendant. Poetic in its own right.
"Do you know that with the price of some cows, you can actually buy a car?" said our heroine to the defenseless gentleman beside her.
The guy looked at her with the confusion that could only be described as the tenth wonder of the world. "A—Are you talking to me?"
She turned her sun-glassed eyes towards him. "Do you see anybody else around here?"
The gentleman flicked his gaze around, wondering if the crowd that filled that carriage was merely a figment of his imagination. "I—I guess..." His tone was already slipping dangerously into defeat.
She slid her sunglasses down, only to reveal the sharp indictment of her own prejudice. "It was a rhetorical question."
The guy's eyes narrowed into slits. "Which one, the cow or the crowd?"
She leaned back to her seat, crossing her arms as if the world had personally refused to cooperate. "The car."
A station arrived when the squeaking sound of the brakes announced it. The hiss of the open door acted like a taunt as the gentleman thought about taking his leave three station early.
He should. Regrets always came too late.
But no. Leaving meant he conceded to the absurd. And he was a contender.
The door hissed shut, leaving the good people in the carriage at the mercy of our heroine. The tram continued its journey to the west.
Holy book? No, it cannot read.
Self-discovery? It literally cannot be more honest with itself.
It was a destiny. A path that no other entity would understand the weight of it. A promise that it had presented to the universe. The stakes of its dignity.
The next station.
Arms still wrapped around her chest. Folded. Lecturer like. Not straight-jacket like.
The sunglasses pointed again at our gentleman. "What's your—"
"Look, lady," Seven in the morning was probably too early for a chitchat for him, "you seem—" The scan. The look. The evaluation. The distance between her head and her toe."—healthy." A compliment.
"But I'm just a guy who wants to start his Tuesday like normal people, but seems to have picked the worst seat on his tram this morning."
"What's wrong with your seat?" as she stared at it. "Wobbly, huh? Don't you hate it when it happens?"
If an eye-roll could evolve, it would have grand-kids by this afternoon.
"I'll be over *there*. His hand raised, vaguely pointed at the other carriage. "If you need me? Pray."
And so our gentleman left, leaving a cross barrier between them with his fingers.
The tram buckled, throwing our good man from one side to the other. As if the tram joined the 'laugh' signage she obviously missed. Her eyes turned to slits, piercing the gentleman's back with a death ray of bubblegum and a pop.
She finally regrouped, turned her gaze to the person on her other side. "Hey, do you know—"
The slow motion of the headphone, raised to one's ears, with a prejudice of a trial without any closing statements.
She followed the movement, unblinking. As if she could stop it with pure sheer will.
But the universe wasn't on her side this time. It was seven in the morning, and it already ran out of the quota of defending her for the day. The headphone settled. Permanent.
Romeo to his Juliet.
A Top for its Gun.
Harry to a Potter.
And the micro head-shake was the magical seal.
Her arms wrapped around her chest. Straight-jacket like.
Eight o three. Punctual to the dot.
What dot? There were no dots. That was just what they said when something was punctual.
Who were they? And why did they say something so vague? It was a mystery.
The tram however, was not. The city center, end of the line.Usually a bad thing, but this time it was not.
It was Tuesday, the beginning of the working days.For her, anyway! Don't get mad now.
She flew across the platform.
Okay, not 'flew' flew. She walked really fast—an act her health insurance company was already voting against. Sunglasses and a long coat flared behind her. True embodiment of a heroine, if it has different genre tags and narratives. Oh well.
Where were we? She flew. Right. She fl—whoa!
SHE FLEW!
The banana peel's grandson was out with a vengeance.
Her hands. Her left was the highest summit, making a curvature of an eclipse that would make the moon feel inferior. It could only be closely competed by her right leg, the one with the traces of vendetta of the banana on its heel. It was a tough call. The hand was making movements that obscured the lens of reality. But the house was still calling 1:40 on the hand.
The left leg was inches from the ground. It had the last taste of dignity that the world would see the last of her. Bended on the knee, couldn't decide which direction it would commit. Backward was regret, and standing still was dying. So it moved forward, following its partner—the right leg—into the uncertainty of a box of chocolate.
Her right hand however, was completely detached from the ordeal, gripping her office bag with the haste of the Dead Men of Dunharrow, or Oathbreakers. Cursed by Isildur for break—… okay, you got the point.
While there were so many questionable lines within her right-hand motives, the facts didn't waver. The grip was ironclad, concrete promises.
It was commendable, it was self-perseverance. It was right. Hand.
Her bum was the evidence of mechanical engineering in its highest form. It redistributed the impact with waves of tsunamis that spread the force all the way to her hipbone. The paramedic response of her immune system was astronomical. Bruises would arrive within two working days. It was holiday season.
And finally, her head. The greasy dead panda finally got its chance to be on stage. It wasn't just softening, it was life-saving.
Not for the panda, unfortunately.
It was weird to see stars on Tuesday morning. The weather forecast didn't say anything about this anomaly. It was beautiful, if not for an older man whose poking her arm with his cane."You're blocking the way."
Danny DeVito. Was NOT the old man.
The fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty didn't earn its space, as our heroine stood up and checked her nails. Priorities. They were fine, still colorless, the way they left her apartment.
She stayed there to gather her thoughts. Or her self-worth. Only time could tell.
And it was fast. Too fast. As she cracked her neck back in place, that was when she saw her.
The girl at the end of the platform was just standing there. Motionless. Stared at the sky as if it owed her money. It did. Twelve dollars and fifty cents, for the turkey croissant on her left hand, spoiled by the shit the sky just decided to throw at.
Her pink, straight hair was blown by the same air that had just witnessed the scandalous crime.
The steps that were closing in carried a survival chance of a pair of trousers in a game of beer-pong."What are you doing?" Our heroine asked the pink hair girl, joining the act of silent curse to the condemned, shameless sky.
Pink hair looked at long coat. "Have you had your breakfast?"
"Nope."
"Want mine?"
"Sure."
And with that, the globe continued to spin.
