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1
Viva
Inside the traincar was stifling. Either the aircon was fucked, or there was none. The small space pressed in on me. Sweat beaded on my brow. I needed to breathe. Not just inhale and exhale, but draw a clean, clear breath that didn't smell like piss.
I rose from my rock hard seat, grabbed the bottom of the windowsill with the tips of my fingers and pushed upward. I grunted and strained. The window opened a whisker.
"Come on, motherfucker," I growled out loud. There was no one nearby to hear. I didn't care if they did. If they didn't like it, they could sit somewhere else.
I growled in frustration and wiped sweat away before it trickled down my nose.
They put the oldest carriages on the cross-city line. Out of sight of anyone important and out of mind. Don't like it? Too bad, you can walk. The city probably thought we should be grateful. When—okayif—they thought of us at all.
Assholes.
Teeth gritted, I shoved at the window again. It didn't budge. It wasn't nailed down, it was just stiff from years of disuse. Or misuse. Whatever.
I glanced toward the carriage door before I took the three steps toward my suitcase. As old as the train, and at least as worn-looking on the outside, it opened with no effort.
Because I take care of my shit,I thought.
From the pocket In the side of the case, I pulled out a bag. Simple, plain, black cotton, the bag was obviously handmade. The stitches looked rough and uneven. What can I say? Sewing is not my thing.
Inside the bag were several small pouches, each much better made. Not by me. Okay, I bought them off the internet rather than try sewing again. One day I would replace the bag, but for now, it did what I needed it to do.
I drew out one pouch, opened it and lifted it to my nose. Eyes half closed, half alert, I inhaled the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg. The combination had a small amount of potency, but it should be enough.
I breathed in and the power crept into me, like the warm sensation that comes from smelling a fresh cup of coffee.
Power soon scratched at my skin, itching to get out. I held it firm.
I stepped back to the widow and pressed the tips of my fingers to the sill. Power wanted to gush away, but I forced it to trickle out of me, down through my fingers and into the gap. I let it sit there for a moment, then levered the window up enough to squeeze my fingers underneath the frame. I now had enough purchase to give it a last shove. Breath ground out of me, sweat trickled into my eye, but the stiff window opened one, two centimetres. There, it stopped; stubbornly jammed in the warped sill. No amount of power would move it further.
I pressed my face to the small opening. The breeze caressed my skin and dried the worst of my sweat. The air from outside was warm and sticky, and smelled like fuel and something dead. Still, it was better than the air inside.
Once I cleared my head, I took in the view. It hadn't changed much in the last hour, but somethingfeltdifferent. My skin tingled. Anticipation, or was it something more?
The train slid into a tunnel, rattled through in a flash of shadows, then clattered out the other side.
The blur of concrete became buildings, each one covered in graffiti. A tag here, a face there. Several dicks and balls hastily painted between passing trains. The usual inner city shit.
I tilted my face back to look above the towering, worn facades. Striking blue sky stretched overhead. If I looked at it long enough, I might forget the rest of Sydney existed.
I watched for a while, half mesmerised. I could swear I smelled the scent of lavender. Clear and fresh.
I must have imagined it. Wishful thinking, maybe, because I'd rather be in a garden, or on a beach. Somewhere a long way from here.
I turned from the open window. My nostrils flared. The stale smell inside the carriage lingered, but the heat was less oppressive. A little bit at least.
I flopped down on the seat and leaned against the window, head back, booted feet beside my suitcase. Through half-lidded eyes, I stared up at the ceiling. I knew every knot and flaw; a scratch here, a gap there, several pieces of well-aimed gum and the gods knew what else. I had counted and memorised them to pass the time. Sitting still wasn't a skill I had mastered.
My eyelids fluttered shut. A soft breath escaped from between my lips. Maybe I would indulge in a sleep—
"Next stop, Copper Square station." A male voice sounded across a loudspeaker. A recording.
The train began to slow.
My eyes flew open, gaze instantly drawn back to the window.
