Phantom Pain

By Lincoln Reed

She points to my scarred neck. “You’re one of them?”

I turn up my collar and bury my nose in my book. The woman sitting across from me leans forward, waiting for a response.

I don’t look up. Get another seat, lady.

She takes the hint and rifles through her carry-on bag.

September sun pours through our shared window on the train. Outside, a lush vista zips past until the locomotive enters a tunnel. When we exit into the daylight, she’s sitting next to me. Her perfume, lilac. Her aura, death.

Scissors glisten in her hand.

She pokes the blade against my ribcage, not breaking the skin, but firm enough to make me wince. Her mouth edges toward my ear, red lips curling. “You’re a thief.”

Nausea rises in my throat. My words are like smoke trapped in a chimney. I want to cry out, call for help, but the train car is empty except for me and the woman. With a few more pounds of pressure, she’ll puncture my left lung. Why is she doing this?

The scissor twists. I stiffen.

“Lady, listen—”

“You bought that body, but you’ll never own it.”

My stomach clenches. The book in my lap is about survival, open to a page describing shark attacks. Bummer for me, there’s no chapter about living through fatal encounters on a cross-country train. Can I push her and run away before…?

“Did you know there’s more cells in your brain than stars in the universe?” Her fingers walk my dress shirt and undo the top button. “They say the heart has a brain, too.”

“What do you want? Money? You want money?”

Her nail drags along my left pectoral, tracing the subtle green of a faded tattoo—a rough-sketched hourglass. I had requested a blank canvas, but tattooed vessels are discounted, and this body has a six-pack, biceps, and an estimated twenty more years before my next trade-in.

I can live with a chintzy tattoo.

Her finger jots the hourglass’s figure-eight design. “Do you want to know why he chose this one?”

Her eyes are as blue as her sundress, and as cold as the chill crawling down my purchased spine. While the train click-clacks around the side of a mountain, a shadow masks her face, leaving only her body illuminated by the sun.

She traces the pink scar running up my neck. “Tracking you wasn’t easy. But here we are.”

“Lady, I’m sorry. Killing me won’t help whatever you’re—”

She prods my rib with the tip of the scissor blade. “You ever been married?”

I breathe deep through my nose. Son of a…

“And the two shall become one flesh.”

My pulse skips. Palms sweat.

I want to curse at her. Grab her wrist. Snatch the weapon.

But my arms won’t let me.

A subtle ache tightens around my heart. Something in her voice, her words. For the briefest moment, for reasons I can’t explain, I miss this stranger. My arms long to hold and comfort this woman who is going to kill me.

She tilts her head. “Where’s your original bag of bones? Oh, no, let me guess. You were a healthy brain with a defective body. Terminal, I bet. Hmm, don’t tell me. Cancer?”

“What do you want me to do?” My mouth dries with a metallic taste. “I paid the company for the transplant. All legal.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

“But killing me is, what, perfectly okay?”

The train barrels onward along the tracks. Beyond the window, dark clouds gather. Rain patters the glass. Thunder bellows.

She digs with the scissors. “Ever heard of phantom pain?”

I glance down the empty aisle. She’s crazy. She’s really going to stab me.

Her lips quiver. “He gave me his heart. Me! I was his, and he was mine. Completely.”

I try to stand, but my feet are cemented to the floor. My legs are like cinderblocks.

“I didn’t want them to pull the plug.” Lightning dances in her eyes. “They said it wasn’t up to me. Someone needed a new vessel.”

Move! I attempt lifting my arms, but nothing works. I’m paralyzed. Trapped beside my killer.

“We married in September. Today’s our anniversary.”

I glance down at my book. Appeal to your attacker’s humanity.

“I’ve got a daughter.” The miserable words trip from my mouth like chalkboard scratches. “I’m on my way to see her. She’s three years old. I didn’t want her growing up without—”

The woman grabs my chin. Presses her lips to mine.

Heat rushes through my body.

She cradles my cheek.

I should run, flag a train conductor, but her kiss chains me to my seat.

When she pulls away, her teary voice cuts through the staccato rainfall. “They took him before I could… I wasn’t supposed to know who, but when I found out it was you, I thought I could stop… But more than that, all I wanted was just to feel… one last time…”

As if on instinct, my hand moves and grasps her palm with a tenderness I don’t understand. Our fingers interlace. Her shoulders relax.

The scissors clatter on the floor.

I exhale.

She stares at our interlocked palms until the bitterness melts from her gaze. Her knees curl into her chest. “I always loved these hands.”

I still need to escape, but my purchased body won’t let me. So, I surrender, sitting beside my captor, holding her hand. With her touch, my chest eases, and warmth falls across my limbs like a soft blanket. She rests her head against my shoulder. Closes her eyes.

The train’s steady hum soothes my nerves. As we breathe together, my eyelids grow heavy.

When I awake, she’s gone.

No scissors. No luggage.

The train speeds ahead.

And my hand feels empty.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a writer, filmmaker, and professor. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Miami University (OH). More than sixty of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies. Short film adaptations of his Havok stories “Tritanopia” and “Dark Side of the Moon” are currently in their film festival run.

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