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@j-a-penrose here’s the revised version of the story. Should I delete the part about her father or no?

I don’t want to go.

Wherever this train is taking me, I don’t want to go.

Mama used to tell me not to trust strangers. This entire train is full of strangers, of whining, screaming children who are going the same place I am.

 

My smudged face is pressed against the window, black streaks surrounding my nose like the friends I used to play with before Mama left.

They’re only shadows now. But shadows are monsters, aren’t they?

Sometimes I miss my monster friends.

 

Mama used to give me presents and read me stories and let me play with lots and lots of toys. Then one day Auntie locked her up in her room and shooed me away when I wanted to say hello. 

I didn’t see Mama for a long, long while. Finally I saw that her bedroom door was open and snuck in.

She looked so peaceful, almost like she was sleeping. I said hello, but she didn’t answer. So then I played with her fingers like I used to do when I wanted her to pay attention to me. They were cold, almost like the vanilla ice cream I ate on hot summer days. I didn’t understand why they were so cold–it wasn’t winter, after all, so why was Mama so chilly?

“Here, Mama,” I said, “let’s get warm.” I tugged the bedsheets up to her chin and smiled when she looked all bundled up.

I knew she would be warm now.

When Auntie came in she screamed and almost fainted. Then some strange men took me by the arms, away from Mama. I thought that they were going to help her get warm without me, but instead they put me on this train alone.

Is Mama warm now?

 

 

I asked one of the older children the same question. He said Mama was gone.

Gone? What does “gone” mean? Does it mean she won’t be coming back?

She has to. The train is scary– it spits smoke like those dragons in the storybooks she used to read to me, with princesses and knights. It runs on metal things, too, like roads but longer.

 

My older brother, Harry, said that you shouldn’t run from your problems. But can you jump? Papa used to jump from trees and branches and rocks and things. Mama said that he jumped too high from something and fell. There was a lot of red paint.

I think Papa liked the color red.

But I don’t like red. I like blue. Harry said if you jump from moving things there’ll more red paint than with Papa.

If I land safely, will there be blue sky instead?

 

The train lurches forward. I take my two grubby hands and press against the glass, but it won’t budge. 

I want to see Mama.

I clamber down from the seat and stand by the train doors. Maybe if I pull hard enough, then they’ll open?

I pull and pull but nothing moves. The train slows down, though, and the big man who drives it says that we’re going to stopping somewhere soon.

Now is my chance. Something shifts the train doors and I squeeze through the small space.

 

There’s screaming again. A big man tries to grab me. Don’t they understand that I want to see Mama? Why are they taking me away, then?

I count to ten, just like Harry and I used to do when we played on the swing.

And then I jump.

 

It feels like flying. Is this what Papa felt like when he fell? It’s a bit scary, though, and the ground is coming up faster and faster, eclipsing the blue sky that I thought I’d see when I jumped.

I think it wants to swallow me, but I can’t let it swallow me. I have to see Mama first.

 

My wings haven’t come in yet, so I’m not ready to fly again. But my monster friends are. They want me to fly with them. They want me back. They want me to play, and I want to play too.

 

Can I see Mama before I go play?

Any thoughts?