Panic

Category C: Second Place (2023) Monash Short Story Writing Competition 
Author: Wen Yee Ang

The scent of musk and old sweat wafts off the stained seats. I’m choking on it. My shoes stick to the rattling vinyl floor as if they’ve been 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 these thoughts are 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 will be safe. I will be fine at home. Home, which is approximately 65 minutes away (10 minutes on this blasted tram, 40 minutes 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 therapy and GP appointments and medication, I would antagonise over every single detail of that day, wondering where it’d gone wrong. Where it’d escalated.

I’d been late to class. I’d just started a gruelling new job. I’d been stressed over exams.

I’d played a few bars on the piano in the law building’s foyer and thought I was fine. I’d gotten a soft drink from the vending machine when my vision started to blur.

I’d just returned from his funeral.

The tram shudders to a stop. Nausea builds in my throat. The tin walls are pushing in – closer closer closer. Something deep down bubbles to the surface – a primal, desperate fear – and it propels me to my feet.

I must get out of here.

I stagger to the front of the tram. Beyond the fogged up windscreen, the wet asphalt is bathed crimson by the glow of traffic lights. The doors are shut.

The tram driver is a hazy silhouette behind scratched 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 in a circle playing cards when my phone had rung.

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

I still remember how the cards on our baby blue 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 think I’m about to vomit. “I– I feel really sick.”

I can feel the eyes of the other passengers. Their gazes slide down my neck and stick to it, acidic. The tram driver finally glances at me, unconcerned. I wonder what kind of shit he must see here on a daily basis, to be so unruffled.

“Sorry miss. You’ll have to wait till the next stop.”

I clutch the handrail as the tram rattles on. My grip is so hard I think I might scratch off its gaudy yellow paint.

Get out get out get out now now NOW–

The family had travelled to my mum’s childhood home for the funeral.

I’d taken my Zoom classes at our antique dining table, staring at the staticky grid of faces as our cheap Internet plan did battle with (and lost against) the whims of reception.

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 sat at that table when I wrote a string of angry emails to the faculty protesting their rejection of my deferral application.

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

I’d stood at that table when I took a faded polaroid off its prominent spot on the refrigerator and slipped it in my pocket.

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

Cigarette smoke hits me in the face like a rude slap. The pavement is slippery with rain. I breathe in the icy air but there’s not enough of it.

I’m two blocks from the station (I know if I’d stayed on that tram like a rational person it would’ve dropped me right in front of it but nooooo–). Fight-or-flight kicks into full drive, yanking me along the footpath like a puppet jerking on its strings. My knees feel wobbly; perhaps they’re close to giving out.

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 did I might never get up again.

I would ask my therapist, later, if it’s worth knowing what had caused that very 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:

“We all desire certainty. But we can’t always be sure of some things. I doubt you’ll ever be sure of why that happened to you.”

I nod. Perhaps I did agree – there’s no value in mulling over something I can never know for sure.

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 will answer.

The echoing ringtone gives way to a soft click.

“Hello?”

“Mum, mum–”

“Is everything alright? Dinner is ready we’re just–”

“No. Yes. Um– Can we just 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, glowing like a beacon in some apocalyptic landscape. I lurch towards it. I feel like 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 take a deep breath in.

And out.