The Trolley Problem

[Based on a true story, this is a work of fiction and contains graphic scenes of mental illness and suicide.]

Phillipa Trolley opened her eyes.

Landscape flashed by, causing her to jerk backwards. Snapping her gummy mouth closed she looked around, her hand going up to rub the soreness out of her neck. There was no-one in the chair beside her, and she didn’t appear to have a handbag… or shoes. Wiggling her toes, Phillipa stretched her legs as far as she could until her shins were pressed against the grey plastic back of the chair in front. Through the gap between the seats she caught a glimpse someone’s elbow, clad in a grey sports blazer. She quickly pulled her feet back, blushing slightly and getting ready to apologise for disturbing them.

In the pamphlet pocket of the chair was a half-crushed bottle of water and a newspaper folded so it looked like a man with two faces was watching her. This caused her to shudder, but Phillipa was unsure why it should be so discomforting. She took the bottle of water instead, removing the lid and being careful not to touch the sticky part where the label had been. As she sipped her eyes slid over the paper, looking for the date. October 5th, 1998. Funny, she thought it was still September, her favourite month for the colours that normally flooded Colorado, starting in the mountains then cascading down as the month wore on.

This wasn’t the first time she had woken in a strange place, but it was the first time she did so on a train.

Leaning forward and tapping the man’s arm, she said, ‘Excuse me, I must have fallen asleep and I’m not sure where we are…’

She gasped when he turned to face her, fixing her alternatively with each set of eyes, two faces seemingly joined in the middle like the man in the paper.

Phillipa’s eyes shot to the floor, her breath coming quicker, right arm trembling slightly as she fumbled out an apology. ‘I didn’t mean to…’

Maybe she was dreaming, or just being rude. The man didn’t say anything – ‘could he?’ she thought, risking a glance back up. A lizard-like tongue whipped out of his mouth, tasting the air between them.

‘Shit!’ Phillipa scrabbled backwards out of her chair, pressing herself against the door to the next carriage. Everyone was watching her, and they all had two faces.

Hitting the Door Open button had no effect and, turning back to peer through the darkened glass, Phillipa could only see her own aghast reflection gazing back at her.

Bringing her head slowly back round she faced the people in the carriage. Everyone was still looking at her, blank expressions on their many faces. She couldn’t stay here. ‘I can’t,’ she muttered, shaking her head. ‘I can’t.’

Fixing her eyes down the length of the carriage she slid one foot forward, the sandpapery surface snatching at the tight polyester of her stockinged feet. Swallowing hard, she repeated the action with her other foot, and slowly inched towards the next carriage.

‘Grand Junction,’ a man said.

Phillipa squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Don’t look, don’t look,’ she repeated to herself. But the voice was familiar. It was…

Opening her eyes she turned to face the man, who half-stood from his seat, one arm hesitating as he reached out to her. His eyes were bloodshot, and his skin was far too pink, but he only had one face, and it was her brothers.

‘D-D-David?’ she stammered.

‘Peggy,’ he smiled, using his pet name for her. He steadied himself as he tried to manoeuvre around the two-faced man sitting between them. A staccato of coughs erupted from him, the smell of car exhaust fumes assaulting her nostrils. Phillipa bolted, running for the far door and mashing the buttons until it slid open.

Slipping through as soon as she could fit Phillipa found herself in a completely black carriage, the air choked with the sulphurous tinge of... coal? ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she thought. ‘Gotta get away, he’s dead, David’s dead.’

The floor, it – didn’t feel right, and… and… the train jostled making Phillipa fall forward. Her elbows and wrists connected hard with the sharp, irregular edges of coal. ‘Peggy,’ David’s voice called from behind her. She kept crawling, up, away, until she hit her head on the solid metal roof. ‘Peggy, I’m sorry, I just want to talk.’

Phillipa’s breath came in ragged gasps as she dug at the coal with her bare hands, scooping it behind her in desperate armfuls like a swimmer getting sucked inexorably towards the edge of a waterfall. Coal dust clung to her; it was in her mouth, her nose, her eyes burned, then... there – a chink of bright, fresh light, growing as she scooped more coal out of the way.

A hand grabbed her ankle, tugging her back toward her dead brother and the train full of faces. ‘Greee-yah!’ she yelled, kicking herself free and slinging armfuls of coal behind her, making the gap big enough to shimmy through. ‘You’re not here!’ she rasped, rolling forward down the other side of the slope to land on her hands and knees… in her mother’s kitchen, staring at the highly polished shoes of a man in a uniform. A police uniform.

Her mother was there, facing the policeman in her kitchen chair, hand covering her mouth as she said, ‘No, not my Billy, not my Billy.’ Tears fell on the table as she shook her head and the screen door swung closed, Phillipa knowing that David had just run out of it.

‘I’m sorry ma’am, we don’t know what happened. His car hit a tree…’

‘Not my Billy,’ her mom repeated. ‘Not my Billy….’

‘Mom?’ Phillipa said so quiet she wasn’t sure if she could be heard.

‘Oh, Phillipa, come here, come here, my dear.’

She stood, stepping towards her mom, and was on the train again.

David Letterman was standing where her mom should have been, wearing a spacesuit, holding a bright red phone in his hand. ‘Let me just call home…’ he said. A ringing echoed all around her and suddenly she was in his Connecticut mansion, watching him make love to somebody else. Phillipa shook her head in disbelief as he turned to her, leering, ‘Nobody’s here, nobody’s here…’, over and over and over again.

Phillipa ran, leaving dirty black footprints along the pristine length of cream carpet in the upstairs hall she knew so well. The stairs at the end that should have taken her down and away, out into the cool night air, were not there though - instead she was running towards another carriage door, this one open but drawing closed with no obvious Door Open button to rescue her.

Phillipa crashed into it, wedging an arm through the disappearing gap, pushing with all her might. It pushed back harder, maliciously crushing her arm. Screaming in pain she knew, knew if she was caught they would all catch up, all of them, everyone she ever ran from would catch her. So she pushed, driving from her hips, using all her strength. Images of her children flashed through her mind... had they been there, in the carriage, watching her? She couldn't be sure, but they had gone- left her... or been taken away. The door creaked and gave just enough – she sidestepped through and it clanged shut, jailors keys turning on the other side.

She was in a prison cell, seatless toilet and sink in one corner, single bunk converted to a double against the opposite wall but she was alone, and the far wall was a window, with landscape rushing towards her and a little control panel that looked like it had been vandalised. Every button and gauge had been smashed. There was a thunk as Phillipa dropped a hammer.

Shaking her head she stepped forward. Not every button, there was one that was still whole, still lit, the word on it flashing.

C H A N G E, it said, over and over again. Her forehead creased as she looked from the button to the window, to the button, then the window again.

Change. She needed to change, her life was unbearable. So much loss, so much suffering, so many others inside her head.

Reaching out Phillipa was about to press the button when she noticed the people on the track. They were just standing there, directly in front of the speeding train. She thought they looked familiar but couldn’t make their features out from this distance. Besides, they were all looking away from her – they were all looking at the person on the other set of tracks, the girl who was kneeling, supplicant.

She knew about this; it was a thought experiment her psychologist had posed to her once. Do you save one person or many people? The obvious answer is to save many people, but you are then told that they are all people that chose to save themselves at the expense of the group of five, which meant…

The train was closer now, bearing down on the group. Phillipa looked to the prone girl on the other track, and could clearly see that it was herself.

Change, the light flashed. CHANGE.

Phillipa slammed her hand down, the carriage jolting as it changed paths.

The girl on the track looked up, raised two fingers in a Peace Salute and disappeared beneath the train.