A Window of Tolerance

A firm hand gripped her shoulder, then gently shook her to wake. Her eyes opened, absorbing the immediate frame of a man that stood tall, gazing down at her with considerable concern. Glancing over his shoulder, she caught sight of many faces belonging to people who had turned in their seats to stare at her in a manner she interpreted as inauspicious.

"Ma'am," the man said. "Ma'am, are you OK?"

After rubbing her eyes, the woman corrected her posture, sitting upright from her acutely slouched arrangement. Surveying her surroundings, she took in the small confines of the room, from the narrow path in its centre to the ugly green chairs and gracious large glass window panes that flanked its sides. But none of the visuals helped her to ascertain the place she found herself.

"Ma'am" the man persisted. "Are you OK? You were screaming. A nightmare perhaps?"

"Where...where am I?"

"You're on a train, ma'am," the man answered her. "Route Melbourne to Bendigo, to be precise."

"That wasn't a dream, she was yelling at us." A lady called out.

The woman shifted her gaze to her, and observed the anxious expression on her face as she held firmly to what was most likely her child.

"Dream?" The woman said in a bare whisper. "Was I sleeping?" She aked, this time her tone was stern for everybody to hear.

The tall man gave a warm smile. "Well, in a manner of speaking, you were."

"Oh don't be so daft man, what are you, hot for this girl?" A short balding man came forward, shoving the tall man aside. "Listen here you little leanaway, if you think you can intimidate us with your idle threats, you best smarten up, cause I tell you now..." the man trailed off as he looked up and down the aisle. "Now where's that transit officer got to," he moved off to the right, the sound of opening doors and gushing wind suggested that he had moved into the next carriage.

"I...I don't understand." The woman said, meeting all the glares of the strangers.

"You was having a fit you was, shouting nonsense about the train crashing. What are ya? Off ya head or something? This ain't no time for jokes like that, missy"," another passenger commented, dressed in a frock suit and largish black hat.

She needs to get to the front of the train.

Another passenger voice.

"Excuse me?" The woman mumbled, eyes searching the carriage for the individual to whom belonged the voice.

"I believe it was the gentlemen up the front, he was just critiquing your odd sense of humour," the kind man said to her.

"No not that, who told me I need to reach the front of the train?"

The question she posed earned her glares of confusion as the passengers all eyed each other in stiff silence, before returning their gaze upon her. The ambience of the carriage grew eerie.

"Goodness woman, pull yourself together," the lady with the child said. "Whatever is the matter with you?"

She needs to get to the front of the train.

There it was again. Though this time the woman acknowleged to herself that it was more of a thought than a voice. Had she siad it?

"I'd stay away from that one matey, she's off her rocker," another passenger commented, more to the benefit of the kind man. "Just calm yourself ma'am, we'll have no more talk of the train crashing thank you kindly. Blimey," the passanger rolled his eyes and returned to reading from the paper.

But the train is going to crash.

Internal. Definitely internal, the woman reflected, then buried her head in her hands. Was she going mad?

"It's not going to crash," she mumbled, rocking gently back and forth in the chair.

The kind man knelt before her and reached out a hand as if to touch her forehead.

"May I?" he asked.

It is going to crash. "It's going to crash." she blurted, in sync with the throbbing thought of her mind.

"Good grief woman, now you either stop with the moping or I am going to slap it out fo you, you here?" said the businessman in frock.

"A hushed voice wouldn't go amiss ma'am," said the nice man.

"I need to get to the front of the train," she said. "I...." she stopped herself from saying another word after she consulted herself on the sustainability of voicing her thoughts to the stranger before her. Even though self-disclosure should be cautiously considered at any time, she couldn't help but feel comforted and calm whenever she stared into the iris's of the tall man's eyes. They were like a gentle hug wrapping around her mind.

The door connecting the carriages opened, signalled by the gushing of wind, revealing the balding man, who was accompanied by another gentleman, this one dressed all in black and with a notable bristled moustache. The woman instantly detected an air of authority about the individual.

"There, that's her." The balding man said, pointing towards the woman.

The woman suddenly felt a tug at her left arm, and saw the hand of the tall man pulling at her sleeve.

"Afternoon ma'am." Said the confident moustached man, taking a step towards her. "I hear you've been disturbing the peace of these lovely people in this here carriage." His tone void of any concern or comfort.

She couldn't ascertain whether it was just a statement or a rhetorical question.

"I....No", she mumbled.

"She keeps saying that the train is going to crash," the lady called out.

"She was yelling it too, off her kadoova, I tell you," the frock man said.

The transit officer kept his hands folded at his front as he surveyed the passengers in the room. He then gazed down at the woman and removed a small leather bound notebook.

"Seem's the public disagrees with you, and I'm inclined to take their word for it," he said, flipping through his book to a clear page. "Being a public nuisance is a direct violation of the 1931 Vagrants, Gaming and Other Offences Act."

This train will not slow nor stop. She has to stop it.

Not now, she thought to herself, slapping a hand to her forehead as though to stop the intruding voice in her head. Again she felt the tall man pull at her sleeve.

The moustached man paused as he observed the unusual behaviour.

"Say, when did you board this here train?" He asked, curiously. "I didn't see you get on at Melbourne. Did you board from Sunbury?"

"Will you just...?" The woman pushed the hand of the tall man away, and in doing so, caught a glimpse of the paper tag wrapped around her left wrist. She raised it up to her face for a better look.

"What is that?" The transit officer asked, leaning forward.

They both read the black ink which stained the paper. The woman could clearly see her name and date of birth at the top of the label, underneath of which were a series of letters and numbers that were beyond her understanding. A simple word was at the bottom: Kaloola.

Just as she finished reading the word, she felt the firm grasp of the moustached man's hand as it gripped her wrist.

"Now that is interesting," he said, tone rising after reading the same word. "So you did board at Sunbury. And how did you manage to escape the loony bin, I wonder?"

The question caused quite a stir from the passengers on board, as those who obviuously understood the term 'loony' began to stand and move towards the front of the carriage in a disorderly fashion, as though the woman harbored some evil omen.

"I knew it, she's not right in the head, that one." The frock man said. "Get her out of here."

"Now settle down ladies and gentleman, I have the situation under control. There is no cause for alarm."

His attempt to calm the passengers was disarmed as the train suddenly lurched, throwing everyone forward, as it sped through it's next routine station stop. As people recomposed themselves, they were all abundantly aware that the train was gaining speed.

"What's going on?" The lady with the child asked, rising to her feet. "Why didn't the train stop?"

"And why did it jump like that?" The frock man added, pressing his head to the glass in an effort to attmept to see the tracks ahead.

"What 'ave you done missy?" Another passenger asked, staring at the disoriented woman.

"It's alright folks, I assure you everything is under control," the transit officer said. However the glare in his eyes seemd to suggest he was siding against the woman. As though he too believed she was somehow responsible.

Using the confusion to his advantage, the tall man grabbed the wrist of the woman and pulled her to her feet.

"Come on, you need to get to the front of the train."

She needs to get to the front of the train.

The disoriented woman stared back at the tall man, unsure between whether to go or stay. Her identity was still awash in a haze. She still didn't know how or why she had come to be on this train, or why a voice was speaking to her within her own mind. She certainly didn't understand why a paper label was attached to her wrist, or what kaloola even meant. But in some bizzare way she was somehow sure she could trust this tall man.

Allowing herself to be lead, she rose from her seat and pushed forward.

"Halt!" The transit officer screamed after them, calling the woman by her name. "Get back 'ere." His attempts were futile as the fleeing couple rushed toward the front of the carriage. "Someone stop those criminals," he commanded of the passengers.

But the other commuters were too preoccupied with worry at the now runaway train, and stood glaring out the windows and catastrophising amongst themselves.

She needs to get to the locomotive.

They'd closed two carriages closer to the front of the train and startled many passengers in the process during their dash down the aisles. They'd even had to leap over an old lady who had collapsed in the asile and who was being tended to by passengers. Some of which shouted after them to calm down and stop running. Still the train continued to gain speed, instilling fear of the inevitable disaster they'd deducted they were destined for.

It wasn't till they entered a carriage with minimal passenegers that the woman begged the tall man to slow down and let go of her wrist.

He stopped and turned to face her. "There isn't time."

"Wait...just wait," she said, catching her breath. "This...it's too much. I still don't even..." her voice trailed off as she bent over, hands on her thighs. "I don't understand."

"You don't remember?"

"Remember what?" She asked, returning to stand upright.

The tall man sighed, letting his shoulders fall. "I should have realised. This always happens when..." he stopped in mid sentence.

"When what?" She pleaded.

"They called it psychoses," he said, the tone of his voice dropping an octave. "Insanity".

"What!?" She exclaimed. Her mouth hung open as she considered his words. "Who are 'they'?"

"Them," he pointed to the label on her wrist. "The ones that put that on you. The doctors of Kaloola."

That word again.

They are the reason you can't remember.

The woman ran a hand through her hair and looked straight at the tall man.

"What is kaloola?"

"They call it an asylum," he answered. "A hospital for the mentally ill."

"Mentally ill..." she repeated, the term sounded foreign to her ears. The information was overwhelming, causing her knees to tremble slightly. She gazed down at her hands, turning them over to inspect her palms then the dorsals. Was this even her body, she wondered, for her mind didn't seem to be her own.

He knows. He was there with her.

Whether it was a spiritual voice or the echo from an ethereal being, she didn't know. But it's narrating nature she didn't question. Like intuition, she instinctly knew it was for her.

"How do you know all this?"

The tall man smiled, then rolled up his left sleeve to reveal a similar paper label wrapped around his own wrist.

Then it all made sense. How he'd come to be right there when she'd woken up from her psychosis. Why his presence had soothed her. Why he'd helped her.

He recognised the expression on her face and knew the cogs of memory were turning.

"We were on the same ward," he said.

"You're the one who stood outside my door..."

"Every morning," he finished her sentence. "We used to take long walks around the garden."

"I remember now," she said, her lips forming a smile. "But, how. How did we get here?"

"It was all you," he said. "The voices, they led us here. They've always led us. The white coats, they call it schizophrenia. They would take you to the labs to treat your mind with electricity. They tried to stop the voices."

The woman raised a hand to touch her temple.

"You were always different afterwards," the tall man continued. "But it always cost you your memory. For days you would just pass me and never say a word."

The woman turned to look out the window, the scenery indistinguishable as the train continued gaining momentum.

"I'm sorry," she said, routing her vision towards the floor.

"It's OK. That's behind us now. You got us out."

"How?"

"The train. We used to see it from our walks in the garden," he explained. "Your voices told us we could use it to escape. For good."

He continued to describe how he had stolen some of the groundskeepers uniforms which they'd used to sneak out the front gates. They'd then raided clotheslines from the houses in town on the way to the rail line, trading attire to blend in with the passengers. And how they'd almost made it, until her psychosis had attracted unwanted attention.

"Got you!" Came a cry from the end of the carriage. The transit officer stood in the doorway connecting the coaches, an unappeasing glare etched on his face.

The tall man and the woman both turned to stare at the transit officer.

She can't stop now. She is so close.

The woman felt that familiar firm hand clasp her wrist. Like the spark that ignited a fire, she felt a similar surge of energy rush through her body. She felt a connection to the tall man, but more than that, she desired for a freedom beyond the brick walls of the asylum that sought to contain her from the world. A world that seemingly didn't want her. But that wouldn't stop her from wanting the world.

Matching the grip of the tall man, she latched on to his wrist and together they rushed towards the front of the carriage and moved through the connecting passage to the next car.

She reached the locomotive. She is at the front of the train.

They entered the engine compartment to find the body of a man slumped in the driver's seat, arms hanging limply by his side. On further observation, they discovered the power lever was as far as it could go in one direction, explaining how the train had suddenly gained speed.

"Is he...dead?" The woman asked apprehensively.

The tall man knelt and applied two fingers to the conductor's neck. His loud sigh and drop of the head indicated to her the result wasn't in favour of the conductor.

"What happened?"

Heart attack. He fell against the controls.

The voice spoke with clear conviction, causing a slight shiver to run the length of her spine.

"We need to stop the train," the tall man said. "If it continues to gain speed, it's going to derail at the next bend."

At his mention, they both looked out the front window, expecting to see a bend in the rail at any moment, but vision was blurry due to the speed of the train.

The man wrapped both hands around the lever and began to pull it back.

"Hurry now, pull that one there," he said, indicating with his head to the large red lever nearby.

The woman's flight or fright response was activated as she stood in a sort of trance, shifting her vision back and forth between the dead conductor, the tall man and the obscured heading of the train.

She needs to apply the break.

The return of that comforting narrating voice sent her body into action. Hastily, she grabbed the break and yanked in a downward motion.

The rewarding sound of metal scraping on metal filled the engine room, coupled with an offensive odor that assaulted the man and woman's olfactory senses. The decelerating G forces caused them both to stumble forward and the conductor's limp body to slide from the chair onto the floor.

The blurred vision through the front window gradually transformed to discernible scenery, and finally stopped moving, indicating the runaway train had finally reached the end of its elopment.

She has done it, she has stopped the train!

The observation from the voice brought a smile to the woman's lips as she turned to the tall man. Relieved, they embraced breifly, until they heard the sound of a door opening.

"Right!" The transit officer said in a flustered tone, entering the room. The woman noticed that this time he had an iron bar in his right hand. "I've had it with you lot. What do you think you're doing then, running all over the place, attacking the passengers then hey?"

"Attacking?" the woman gasped.

"We were stopping the train." The tall man said.

"Right, and I suppose that the old lady two carriages back was fixing to stop you then?"He said. "Is that why you pushed her to the ground. And what about him then?" The officer said, turning his gaze to the conductor who layed stiff on the floor.

"We found him like that." The tall man replied.

"Hmm. Course you did," he replied in a patronising tone. "You alright down there mate?" The officer called out to the conductor in a concerned voice.

"His dead," the woman said. "I think he had a heart attack."

The comment angered the man, as he grit his teeth and began brandishing the iron bar like a weapon.

"Now you've done it!" He shouted. "God damn it, get on the floor, both of you, now, or so help me I will pummel you where you stand!"

The woman turned to the tall man, a glint of fear in her eye.

"It's OK," he whispered, grabbing her hand. "Just do as he says."

Together they inched back from the advancing officer and knelt down, their backs against the controls of the locomotive.

"God damn crazies," the conductor said. "If there's one thing I didn't need today, it was a bunch of the devil's own loonies running all round my train stirring no good."

"But your little adventure is over now. Oh yes," he smiled. "The world will be a better place when you lot are all locked away. There'll be less crime and no more of this nonsense."

Ignoring the officer's judgemental ramblings and just oversights, the woman and tall man continued to stare at each other. A sort of understanding connected them beyond any measure that a social or equitable context could.

Because deep down they knew. They knew that the world was not yet ready for them. If they were metaphorically a jar of honey, wrongfully labelled as a jar of marmalade, then the world would only ever see them as the jar of marmalade. Thick in texture and complete without a sense of identity or belonging and nuttier than a five pound fruitcake.

There was no undoing the label society placed upon them. They'd learned too well that people didn't have the patience for what they didn't understand. People only saw what they wanted to see, just like the transit officer who had concluded at the moment he'd seen her wrist tag and the moment she and the tall man had fled, that they were the reason behind the sudden speeding train - despite the fact they'd all been within arms distance of each other the moment the conductor likely had his heart attack and slumped against the speed lever.

So they stayed perfectly still and waited till long after the transit officer was hailed the hero of the event and they cast as the villains, with the return to the asylum seen as fitting punishment. But at least there they had each other. And time. Time to ascertain their place in the world. The place where labels and walls weren't used to segragate, or as a measure to place worth for differing classes.