The Day I Got Taken Out by a Trolley

I don’t arrive back in secondary school. I’m deployed there. Dropped — without briefing — into the same stale corridors where the walls sweat Lynx Africa and teenage despair, and every locker door feels like it’s about to slam on your sense of self. A place that doesn’t so much educate as dismantle you, piece by hormonal piece. And of course — because my brain has a flair for the absurd — Big Boss is running the place. But not just running the school. No. He’s rebranded it as a full-blown military operation for the emotionally underprepared. He stands on the assembly hall stage like a man one whistle-blast away from declaring war on untucked shirts. Blazer buttoned to the throat. Chin lifted. Chest out like he’s storing spare authority in there. The whistle hangs at his neck like a medal he awarded himself. He blows it. It’s not a sound. It’s a weaponised frequency. “LISTEN UP, YOU LOT!” he roars, pacing like he’s inspecting troops before battle. “THIS IS NOT A HOLIDAY CAMP. THIS—” he gestures violently at the hall “—IS AN INSTITUTION OF DISCIPLINE.” A pause. A slow scan. He locks eyes with people like he’s selecting targets for emotional execution. “AND YOU… ARE ALL CURRENTLY FAILING IT.” Comforting. Genuinely. Registration is no longer a gentle “here, miss.” Oh no. It’s corporate. Clinical. Soul-stripping. A card reader is bolted to the wall like a judge with a vendetta and no lunch break. You tap in. It decides if you exist. Miss it — and your name is digitally assassinated. Three names flash onto the board. A brutal digital cross through each one. The whistle screams. “THREE INDIVIDUALS HAVE FAILED TO SIGN IN.” Not students. Individuals. We are herded into a line. Shoulder to shoulder. Spine straight. Eyes forward. Inspection. He walks the line slowly, hands clasped behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels like a man thoroughly enjoying his own performance. He stops. Points. “Phillips.” A pause. A breath. “Go home.” He leans in slightly. “You are a failure.” Phillips doesn’t walk — he evaporates. “Collins.” A sigh this time. Disappointed. Worse. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” Collins nods, and heads towards the door. “Williams.” A softer tone. Almost kind. Almost. “You’ve only let yourself down.” That one lands like a quiet bruise. They walk. Heads bowed. The rest of us stare straight ahead like survival depends on pretending we’re not relieved it wasn’t us. “Now shift your arses and get to first lesson,” he yells. He only ever yells. First lesson: P.E. Of course it bloody is. Physical Education — a carefully engineered circle of hell involving foul-smelling changing rooms, forced enthusiasm, and the slow public erosion of dignity under the banner of “team spirit.” “Hockey!” Big Boss bellows, like he’s announcing a blood sport. A ripple of dread moves through the room. I used to like hockey. Once. Before someone nearly knocked me unconscious with a stick. Absolutely delightful. Ten out of ten, would relive. But today… no sticks. Because logic has left the building entirely. Instead, we’re issued trolleys. Actual. Pull-along. Trolleys. The same ones from work. The same unreliable, squeaking, emotionally unstable contraptions that collapse at the faintest hint of responsibility. All hell breaks loose. Students surge forward. The good ones — small, sturdy, wheels that actually rotate — are seized instantly. Clutched to chests. Guarded with feral intensity. You can see it in their eyes: try me. I dare you. What’s left? The long-handled ones. The ones designed for giants. I stand there, all of 5ft 3 of me, staring at like it’s personally responsible for my downfall. “Don’t worry,” Charlotte whispers. Charlotte — my angel, my savour, my patron of practical solutions — has already stationed herself on top of two hobbit-friendly ones like a fiercely maternal pigeon. “I’ll guard them.” “Thank you,” I say, with the ease of someone who’s stopped pretending they’ve got this. In the centre of the hall, the ritual begins. Team picking. A slow, excruciating erosion of self-esteem disguised as participation. Two captains. Two lines. Names called. Bodies claimed. I prepare. I stand tall. Shoulders back. Chest puffed. Smile fixed like I’ve rehearsed it in a mirror. Pick me. Pick me. Pick — Nothing. One by one, they’re chosen. Names called. Alliances formed. I remain. A ghost in trainers. A suggestion of a person. I subtly adjust my stance. Make myself look more… pickable. Still nothing. It prickles now. That old feeling. That teenage dread that creeps in under your ribs and starts quietly rewriting your self-worth. I know I’m capable. I’ve got stamina. Determination. A respectable left hook if things escalate. Apparently, none of that translates. “LYLE!” The voice cracks through the hall like a gunshot. “You will join as a spare.” A spare. Not even the last choice. Just… contingency. I shuffle over to the designated queue of the vaguely unwanted. In front of me, a woman is murmuring to a student. “I’m sensing a recent bereavement…” Oh, here we go. “You’re a fraud,” I mutter. She turns sharply. “Excuse me?” “Nothing.” I look down — Jesus Christ. My feet. My bare, exposed feet… have sprouted talons. Not nails. Not even slightly overgrown. Talons. Thick, yellowed, curling, grotesque claws, scraping against the floor with every microscopic shift of weight. Screeeeeeeeeech. Oh fantastic. The sound echoes. Amplifies. Judges me. Heads turn. Oh no. No, no, no. Heat floods my face. Sweat beads instantly. My glasses fog like I’ve just run a marathon sponsored entirely by shame. I try to stand still. My toes twitch — Screeeeeech. Brilliant. I wave at Charlotte. Frantically. Desperately. She looks at me. Looks at the trolleys. Shakes her head. She will not abandon her post. Not for me. Not for God. Not for my claw-based crisis. The air tightens. The room closes in. Every eye feels closer than it should be. I need to leave. Immediately. Quietly. Invisibly. I take a step — Screeeeeech. Nope. Not invisible. Another — Screeeeeech. Oh, sod it. I bolt. Full sprint. No dignity left to salvage. Screech-screech-SCREECH— The sound follows me like a personal soundtrack of failure. I dive into a storage room and slam the door behind me, breath ragged, heart thundering like I’ve outrun something far bigger than embarrassment. Dark. Still. Safe. Except — Someone’s there. Curled over a desk. Shoulders shaking. I’d know those curls locks from anywhere. Kylie. Well, ain’t this fantastic. Because my brain has decided now is the time for emotional reconciliation under extreme conditions. Three and a half years of absence… and we meet in a store cupboard. I’m a sweaty mess with talons for toes. I may as well sprout wings, build a nest, and fully commit to the image. “Kylie?” I whisper. She turns. Eyes glassy. Face flushed. Grief clings to her like humidity. “Are you okay?” “No,” she says. “I need help.” She gestures. A baby lies on the desk. Tiny. Kicking. Real. “You have a baby?” She nods, a sort of yes-no-maybe situation. I don’t question it. I step in. Instinct takes over. The dungarees are in a knot of fabric engineering that defies logic, but I manage it. Clean, efficient. “Years of practice,” I say in jest. Her face drops. Right. Misjudged that. She changes the baby’s nappy, then lifts it up and holds it close. It’s… strange. Seeing her like this. Time has moved. Of course it has. It always does. But seeing it — here, in front of me — lands heavier than I thought it would. Something tightens in my chest. An ache for moments we didn’t share. The versions of each other we never got to meet. The baby settles. Breath soft. I watch its tiny chest rise and fall. For a second — only a second — I feel it. A broody moment tries to happen. I shut it down immediately. Then — Nah. Cats. Definitely cats. “I’ve read your dream stories,” she says. It shatters like a dropped plate. Loud, clean, irreversible. Of all the things she could say… this wasn’t on the list. “They’re good.” I blink. Suspicious. Good? This feels… unlikely. Dangerous, even. “I’ve dreamt of you too,” she adds. “Well,” I laugh, brittle, “that’s comforting. At least I’m not the only one breaking and entering via dreams.” A pause settles between us. Then I say it. Because of course I do. “Do you think we could start again?” The question hangs. Delicate. Desperately sincere. She breathes in. Deep. Considering. Her eyes drop to my feet. “Maybe,” she says slowly. “But you’d have to lose those beastly talons first.” And just like that — We laugh. Properly. The kind of laughter that remembers who we were before things became… complicated. Before distance. Before silence. Before whatever it was that quietly unstitched us. “And will you stop stalking me in your dreams?” she asks. “I can’t promise that,” I smile. “But… I have a feeling I won’t need to anymore.” I look down. My feet are normal. No talons. Just… feet. Unremarkable. Human. Forgiven. Relief floods in. Clean. Complete. I step back into the hall. The game’s over. Obviously. Charlotte is still guarding the trolleys like she’s built her nest there and intends to lay in it. “Where have you been?” she hisses. “We’ve missed the entire game.” “Some games…” I start slowly, still holding onto something soft and fragile, “aren’t worth being picked for.” She squints at me like I’ve become mildly insufferable. Fair. There’s a crowd forming. A circle. I move closer. The psychic stands in the centre. But she’s changed. Her eyes — milky. Clouded. The performance has stopped She turns. Looks straight at me. Tilts her head slightly and says — “How’s your head?” The laughter stops. The hall warps. The edges blur. There is no cupboard. No Kylie. No baby. No second chance carefully staged in the dark. Just — Impact. A flash of white. A crack I feel before I understand it. I’m on the floor. Flat on my back. A trolley lies beside me. One of the long-handled ones. Of course it is. Twisted at an angle like it’s just committed assault and isn’t remotely sorry. Voices flood in. “Oh—she’s down—” “Did you see that?” “Bloody hell—” The ceiling swims into focus. Bright. Indifferent. And somewhere above me — Sharp, shrill, inescapable — A whistle blows.