On the day that I met Chris, the train was leaking. I had been watching the moisture gathering from the air-conditioning unit on the ceiling. Each drip fell to pool on the carpeted floor between my feet. Sitting directly underneath the air-conditioning system, my body was shivering with cold, but it was a small commiseration when considering the infamous Gold Coast heat that awaited me outside.

That day, I was too exhausted to feign attractiveness. I had not even changed out of my work clothes; the Subway logo paid homage to the things that just didn’t concern me anymore. It was four pm, I was going home. Who would notice if I had lettuce in my hair? Who would care? The air-conditioning system had my full attention until I noticed a presence beside me.

"You got a light?"

I think my mouth actually fell open the first time I saw her. Her hair was matchstick-red, short to expose each of her bejewelled ears. Piercings glittered at me from her eyebrows, her lips, her nose and the small indent above her upper lip. Clutched between her teeth was an unlit cigarette.

I nodded mutely and dug around in my bag for a lighter. I wasn’t a smoker in those days but I carried one nonetheless.

Click. Suck. The red-haired angel blew a halo of smoke. Drip. "Thanks. I'm Chris,” she said. Her voice was husky from the chemicals that lined the tubes of her throat.

"I'm Jodie." My own voice came out curiously small. That this girl was speaking to me felt surreal. Cancerous clouds wafted above our heads, getting lost somewhere near the leak. A nearby passenger narrowed her eyes at us and indicated to the No Smoking sign fixed upon the wall. A nervous thrill stirred inside me; never before had I been so close to a person so blatantly breaking the rules. I liked it.

So Chris and I began to talk, as she smoked beside me. We conversed about religion and the government. We talked about education, illness, rebellion and submission to popular ideals. Things which my peers showed no interest in. Things which mattered. She raised her middle finger to anybody whose stare lingered on her for more than a few seconds, which caused my face to burn. At one point, she passed the cigarette to me and without just a moment’s hesitation I accepted it. The harshness of the toxins in my lungs made me feel dangerous.

And as suddenly as she had appeared, Chris uttered a profanity and jumped off the train. Ticket inspectors were heading into our carriage and the cigarette butt was still burning on the floor. Nobody said a word.

I thought of her as I walked home that afternoon. Christina. Christina the punk. She told me that addressing her by her full name was punishable by death, but I loved the sound of it in my head. Christina. That day there was an intangible feeling of something changing in my life, of an event biding its time until it would be analysed years later, when I'd look back and scream, "There! That moment! That's when it f---ed up!"

The train became our ritual. Every Saturday morning she would be in the same carriage with something to show me. Chris stole everything she owned. She said that she didn't want to be just another consumer. I reminded her several times that purchasing and consuming were two different things. Even if she refrained from giving the companies her cash, she was still reinforcing the social importance of “owning stuff.” At these times, she would smile in a strange way and pat my head, calling me her “Dear Little Jodie.” I found it patronising but oddly pleasing.

She'd ask me to try pot with her, or to come to a party with her and her violent friends. I was more scared of how they would react to me than how I would feel about them. So it became just us two, content in each others’ company. To my mother's horror she slept over every other weekend. Chris's radical image was a contrast to my straight-laced, well-mannered friends of the past, but I think she was secretly pleased that I had found someone with whom to share my thoughts - the ones she couldn't pretend to understand.

Chris and I would raid the liquor cabinet and drink vodka in my bedroom, listening to Bikini Kill, Le Tigre and Sleater-Kinney. “Music to fuck to,” she’d tease. All the while she hinted at some deep river of unhappiness lying dormant underneath her tough exterior but I never pried and she never confided.

"Oh, Jo! This is love, better than those fucking record industry cunts can define it," she told me once as I brought her a coffee for her hangover. I chewed my lips and said nothing, scared of what would happen if I opened my mouth. She inhaled chemicals to escape what she had no control over, what she wouldn't tell me no matter how drunk we were. I stayed in school, I went to work, and I pretended not to care that I had only friend and nobody had even grazed against me in a way that mattered for so long. Then one night, she asked me to run away with her.

It never even occurred to me to say no.