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My Busride

Everybody is running. Screams echo through the halls. Everything is lost and everyone knows it. People trying to save their bare lives stomp over each other. Meanwhile I stand perfectly still and watch this bizzare situation calmly without a slightest touch of emotion. I don't know why, but I don't fear death. I embrace it. I turn around and with curiosity watch as my undoing is getting nearer every second. And than it's over.

I wake and sigh with disappointment. The darkness that surounds my bed is not nearly as scary as the darkness that covers my soul. While trying to check the alarmclock my hand slips and glass filled with water breaks on the floor. Great. Perfect start for yet another perfect day. Even though there is still time until I have to get out of bed, I stand up and make my way into the bathroom knowing that I couldn't fall asleep anyway. During my morning stereotype, somewhere between shaving my pre-pubescently looking subtle and self loathing, someone calls my mobile. Still with shaving cream on my chin I rush to my room full of hope. It is just my mother. I don't know what I was hoping for. That she'd chose me? That she decided to give me chance? Or that she at least decided to give back the organ that was ripped from my chest cavity? Ripped… More like slowly carved out with a butter knife. Anyway, not wanting to hear any pity from anyone, especially from my mother, I press ignore and continue with my day. In shower I find out that, while rushing to my room, I accidentally stepped on a couple shards of my broken glass. Whatever. Physical pain is nothing compared to the mental one I've been experiencing in the last months.

Few bandages and quick breakfast later I find myself on the bus to work. Time for my favorite bus game. I call it “what is their problem”. You can play it just by looking at other passengers and guessing what their problem is or what kind of life they are living. And so I look around scoping for a target. A guy wearing jumpsuit with paint stains all over it, with a sad melodramatic frown on his face. Classic underachiever who had never done anything really important and now is stuck in his low-payed job with no bright future, probably drinking himself unconscious every weekend in some cheap pub with other likely-minded loosers. Too easy. Who's next? A gipsy couple with a baby-carriage. Another easy one, but what the heck. Both seem angry, probably after fight. Obviously not ready to be parents, or a couple for that matters, they now have to raise the accident of the night when they spend all their money on alcohol and none on condoms. Woman looking like the submisive type, just trying to get by. Man appears to be a drunk, maybe beating her. Once proud and self-absorbed party animal, now an average Joe, stuck in a life he never wanted. I pity their child. Onto my next subject. A girl, about twenty years old, dressed in baggy floor-reaching dress, wearing huge reading glasses and completely absorbed in whatever book she's reading. Problems? Probably low self-esteem, intimity issues, virgin. Disapointed with how life turned out for her she seeks shelter in the arms of fictional charakters in her books.

I don't know why I judge other people like that. Even though I try telling myself that it is just a way of studying people and passing time, it's probably because I feel better, when I know that I'm not the only one having problems. I grow disgusted of myself and so I look out of the window, letting my thoughts run freely inside my deranged head. Looks like rain. Might as well, I don't care very much. After a while I can't stand the anarchy of my own mind and look back into the bus. It became a bit more crowded and I notice some new subjects. One especially draws my attention. Young woman, who sat in front of me. Whatever I do, I cannot figure out anything about her. Damn, that is unusual. What is your story? She notices me looking at her and so I quickly turn my sight onto something else, but after a moment of resisting I look at her once more. With her black hair and beautiful blue eyes, she smiles at me like she knows something I don't. I spend another couple minutes trying to figure out why can't I define this one. After that, it's my stop.

At work I find myself still thinking about her for some time, but then I just let myself being dragged along through the mind-numbing monotomy that has become of my job. I can't even remember what exactly am I doing. I must be still good at it, since they are paying me pretty well and noone is complaining. Gone are the times I used to like it here. The job that once used to give me joy is now just a tool for obtaining money. The stereotype has one advantage though. I can almost black out and do everything just how i got it memorized. In this state time almost flies by and I am punching out of work in no time.

I was right, it is raining. A true downpour to be exact. To magnify my suffering I miss the bus just by a few seconds and so I stand in the rain for a good thirty minutes waiting for another. I don't even try to find a shelter, why bother… When the bus finally arrives, I sit at one of the few remaining free spaces in the bus and snuffle while searching my bag for something to blow my nose into. Not being able to find anything I sigh with disappointment and look in front of me. And there she is. That woman again. Penetrating my barrier of unpleasantness which I built around myself, and was so sure that was obvious to everybody, she smiles and offers me a napkin. I accept with involuntary grunt, as it has been some time since I thanked someone for anything. She gives me a couple more and steps out of the bus. I notice there is something written on one of them. A number. Is it hers? Does she know, she gave me the napkin with her number on it? I look at her through the window with confusion in my eyes. She smiles once more, waves and then disappears as the bus continues on its routine drive. I spend the rest of the commute obsessing about what it meant like a fourteen-year-old. After getting home, still soaked with water, I go to the bathroom and look at my reflection in the mirror. And although I am still torn inside, the guy in the mirror smiles. And I feel like there might be some hope left for me after all.


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