The metal bench is freezing…it has that kind of chill that sinks deep into you, cutting through a thin pair of jeans like shards of glass, right into your tensed muscles and rigid bones. Then, turning back out, the icy air prickles your nose and cheeks, frosting them with a bluish tinge. The lady next to me hasn’t gotten the tinge yet. The warmth from the department store she has just left still lingers inside her down coat and woolen cap. I wish I had my ski jacket, but then, I didn’t think I would be waiting this long.
I glance up at the streetlight. A single bulb struggles to stay lit, casting a reddish glow across the lonely street. Had this been a horror film, this would be the moment right before the creepy music starts, when the unassuming victim makes the worst decision of her life. Bridget would have laughed at that. She is the fearless one of our group, the girl that would stand up and punch the killer right in the nose. I would never have the guts to do that. I was the ‘listener’ of the group. The person who was content to sit and watch as the others cracked jokes, the one that everyone poured their hearts out to.
The lady shuffles her bulky purse, causing the numerous items inside to crackle and clink. I like the way it sounds, the same jingle my mother’s purse used to make when I was young. I always thought my mother’s purse held everything in the world, like that magic bag in Harry Potter, containing an endless supply of everything you would ever need. It doesn't make that sound anymore. Nor does it hold much of anything anymore, except a worn credit card and some random coins.
I watch the woman’s feet. She keeps tapping one foot as if keeping time to some song stuck in her head. She begins to hum softly, a slow tune floating through the still air. I remember when my mom used to sing. Her voice would drift through the house, glazing everything in sweet calm and joy. It would stitch up bad days and carry tired eyes to sleep. She hasn’t sung in two years. She stopped the day my father left.
A white and blue bus slides around the corner, leaking out a thick trail of exhaust fumes. It putters to a stop. I crane my neck, to see the neon orange letters that scroll across the front. Wilmington, DE, not my bus. I slouch back down on the bench as the women beside me rises. Her name-brand sneakers squeak up the bus’s steps. Snap! The door closes, and I am left alone.
It’s ten minutes before the man arrives. He struts, like a hawk among pigeons, to the lonely bus stop. A briefcase clasped in one hand and a cellphone in the other, he perches himself at the far end of the bench. He stares straight ahead, unblinking, as if he were playing those staring games we played as kids. How long could you last before your eyes dried out and teared? I was the champion in my family, but my dad was a close second. We could compete across the kitchen table, until my mother grew so aggravated she scolded us. Then we would throw our heads back and laugh at her reddened face. Now, my eyes tear up at just the thought of my father.
A gust of wind ricochets off the nearby buildings, swirling and spitting as it hurtles down the street. It whips my hair across my face and tumbles down my throat, freezing my lungs. Again I wish I had my ski jacket. The man isn’t dressed as warmly either. By the looks of it he wasn’t expecting to be waiting at all. Maybe he forgot to call a rental? Or maybe he is just one of those people that has never had to wait for anything? There were a lot of people like that in my old school, but really, what could you expect from kids that went to a private school that called its students “the privileged elite”? My father had gone there. So had his parents and his grandparents. I am the exception. I am not going to be a privileged elite, not anymore.
The blaring lights of another white and blue bus slide around the corner. The bus halts in front of the stop. I sit up. The letters read Upper Montclair, NJ. It’s not my bus. I groan in annoyance as the man strides up to the bus. Snap! The door closes, and I am left alone.
I hear his footsteps before I see him. A boy, who couldn’t be much older than me, dressed in all black. He slips into the bench beside me. He keeps his eyes down, at first. It’s subtle, but I can tell he is watching me out of the corner of his eye. It doesn't scare me though. It’s almost as if he is just as nervous as I am. Suddenly, he looks up. Just for a second, but just long enough for me to see the mark. The blueish-brown color swallowing his left eye. I freeze. My face stings again, my head hurts again, and I am engulfed in my memory.
My breath is hot on my hands as I crouch behind the door. My ears are straining for even a whisper of sound. It is silent. I rise, heart in my throat. One thought runs through my mind.
Don’t wake it.
My hand clutches the knob. I inch the door open and slide into the room. There it is, flung across the sofa, its face buried in the rotting pillows. The air reeks of liquor. A smell that has saturated our house since the day my father left. Since the day I was yanked out of school, since the day we went broke, since the day my life shattered. Bottles litter the floor. I am careful not to touch a single one. I almost make it, three steps away from freedom. But then it wakes. A monstrous dragon on the edge of fire. I have no where to run. It is between me and the door. At first it is confused, as it always is when it wakes from a drunken sleep, but then, it is furious. This intensified anger only brought on by the alcohol. An anger I have seen lash out at others, but not at me, never at me. This time is different though. It knows what I am trying to do. It knows I am running away, and that is when the fists come. The endless pounding across my skull.
I scream,“Mother stop! Mom please, stop! Mom! Mom it hurts! Mom!” But she is gone, only a shell of my mother is left. I reach down grasping for something. Anything! I clench cold glass, and throw with all my might. The bottle misses her by inches, and slams into the wall behind. She turns, shards of glass slicing into her. It’s my chance, and I am gone. I run so fast.
So far and so fast, just to get away from my Mother.
Just to get away from the haunting image of my Father.
Just to get away from my life.
Just to get away from me.
I snap back. Another bus has pulled up. It’s my bus, I know. The boy looks at me, again. There is a sad look in his eye. It’s his bus too. I realize I am crying, but it’s okay. I look at the boy. His eyes are trying to tell me something. I get the feeling he is not going. He has every reason to, but he isn’t. The bus doors creak open, and the driver cocks his head at me. Three steps to freedom or to run away? Snap! The door closes.