The Bus

She clutches the handle of her bag even tighter, folding it into herself as the bus jitters through another pothole. The tears rise to the surface again, and she pushes them back in fear. Although she is as transparent and fragile as glass, she will not let the others see her weakness. Another pothole. Another bang. A child cries and she winces. She can feel the energy pulsing in her core, and she curses it, pushing the bag further into herself as though she could replace what is in her now with the bag.

Her teeth grit together in an emotion that she does not know. For so long, she thought she had been numb to the fear that pervaded life in this part of town. Then this happened, and the fear once again tore through her in fresh new waves. It burned her, clawing at her from the inside out, charring her flesh. It had blackened her heart and thrown her into the void, a void she knew she would not escape from. She knows the emotion, now. They have been reacquainted, and while some say one is the loneliest number, she knows that it is three.

Another pothole. Another bang, although this time from outside the bus. She wishes she could walk towards it, walk into it, but she notes that she fears death just as much as she longs for it. The energy writhes in her again, and she cannot keep in the fear and the pain. A sob escapes her and the drunk a seat down from her swivels his head towards her and frowns. Even the drunk cannot abide her. If only he knew where she had been and where she was coming from.

She had come from a home where she had been taught to do better. To be better. She had come from what she had thought was a date. She had come from the side of town that the police lived in more than their own homes. She had come from a run down little government-funded building that had delivered the news, and while they smiled because of her lie, she felt the energy within her constrict in a death sentence. She was supposed to escape. She was supposed to be better. To do better.

The bus pulls to the side. It’s her stop, but her legs have forgotten how to move. The energy is pulsing; it is glowing, reminding her that it is there and that it will not leave, not unless she takes drastic measures. The doors have opened, but she finds that she can only stare at them as if from a great distance. The drunk gets off. Here, the drunk gets off, at the place where she was supposed to be. Her future. Her apartment. Her life.

And the glow reminds her that it was only supposed to be a date.