The Bus

 A baby cries a sad, somber shriek of pain. I think of baby Timothy and how his slender throat would tremble and erupt into his delicate laughter when I would pinch his little nose. I think of Mama and her thin fingers as she would stroke my hair as I cried myself to sleep. We would lie there in the dark, surrounded by nothing, and yet everything. 

The bus lurches forward. My head thrashes awake and I feel the pain from all the years of living under Mama’s roof with her snake-like whip trickle down my aching spine.

 I can’t, I can’t, I can’t think of them.

Them. My family and my home.

But they are gone now, like a sore memory, too far away for me to remember anything but painful moments in the dull life I seem to live in.

 I look down at my hands, turning them over, and over once again, studying the cracked skin and chipped nails. My hands are scarred and calyces riddle my palm. They were dry and course like sandpaper as I massaged my sprained knee.

The baby continued to wail, gasping at the bone-dry air of the bus. The mother, perhaps, who was young, stared blankly ahead as if she was sleeping and forgot to close her eyes. She reminded me of Mama, the way she let her chin fall, the way she cradled the baby, but never once looked at its face or smiled. When I looked into her eyes, I realized she was on this bus too, trying to escape her past and hoping to forget. Her body told me she had nothing left. She would take this bus to wherever it would take her. Her eyes empty like two round tokens of utter defeat.

Mama’s eyes were like this sometimes, so empty and so lost. It made me remember all the things I could have done to help. I could have saved a life. I left my only home with nothing but guilt. I clenched my fists as my mind showed me his menacing snicker. “Jacob,” I warned under my breath. I let my fingernails dig deep craters into my palms. I trusted him and he trusted me, but that night...“Stop it. STOP. IT.” I told myself, but I couldn’t stop. The screaming in my head grew louder. I couldn’t take the memories. They drowned my thoughts and ate me alive. I let my eyes snap open. The quicker I can forget, the better.

 As I stare out the window, following the trees lining the side of the road. I see myself staring back. This girl had untamed, long, jet-black hair, and deep, somber brown eyes. Her nose jutted out too much and she knew she walked hunch over, thanks to the beating Mama would give her when she saw her arched spine. She had her Dad’s smile as Mama used to say, but how could she know that for sure? I don’t smile. How disappointing it must have felt for her to see something so ugly stare back. I hated who I was.

 Where was I going? I pondered this question as the bus jerked forward. Would I even make it to where I wanted to go? This destination was not a place, but a person. I scanned the empty road. Looking out at the barren land with not a single soul in sight, I shut down this false sense of hope. Nowhere, I was going nowhere. 

 Living with Mama was tough. We were poor. People threw the phrase living off dirt around us like it tasted good in their mouths. I would watch Mama, waiting to see if she would say something back. I wondered if she felt the tightness in her chest and the boil in her stomach when they barked comments about our clothes and our home. It took years for me to realize she was not strong enough. You could see it in the way her parched lips would frown at the rain and the sun. How her fingers would tremble as they brushed against my nose which must’ve resembled my father’s. How she never once bothered to say, “I love you.” Accepting her defeat, only created it for me. 

Home was me, Mama, baby Timothy, and Jacob. Together we were a silent family like a jumble of broken pieces that didn’t quite fit together. We need one more piece, but also so many more, to make things right. I’ve never met my Dad. Mama used to joke that when Dad first saw my crippled back, he left thinking he could outrun imperfection.

I guess I’m like Dad. Running away when things get bad. I had to leave because I was a threat. The truth is I’m a killer. We didn’t have money for breakfast and Mama would often give my food to Baby Timothy. My hunger would cause me to lash out and for the tornado inside me to leak from my lips. My head would pound and the fire inside me would grow bigger and bigger, till it felt as if I was tearing at my seams and only screams erupted from my frail body. 

 But the day I killed Jacob, my best friend, and my only brother, I realized I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t do that to Baby Timothy. The feeling comes over me again. I shudder. His blood still stains my worried mind. 

 Sitting there, in the torn-up bus seat, I felt like a loaded gun, only a second away from harming the lifeless passengers of this bus. I could kill. My headache pounded against my skull and I felt the need to move. I needed to do something, to break something. This craving sat well in my stomach, but I had to make it stop. I formed a claw with my hand and scraped at my knee alongside the other scars. Blood trickled from the tips of my fingertips. I needed punishment and discipline, and this was the only way to do it. The sudden piercing from my leg made me feel alive. More blood stained my hands. These were killing hands. These were the hands that tore through Jacob’s boney ribs. I averted my eyes away. I did not want to be reminded of the darkness that lived inside me. I wondered if Dad had this darkness too.

 As I scanned this bus, I realized that we all had our stories. Their pasts were easy to read. We all were hurting: the mother, the baby, the frail elderly man mumbling a lady’s name under his breath, the driver, and the small kid hugging his backpack. It seemed as though this bus was an escape. Even if with our differences, we were all riding it for the same reason.

 We were not runaways, but run-towards. We were running with this bus. Running and running and running and running towards a better life. 

In the distance, I see a man with a nose as rigid as mine. He looked like an older version of Jacob, but only when he smiled and waved in the direction of the bus, I really knew who he was.

Dad? I felt a warm, unfamiliar feeling rise in my belly. All the words I wanted to cry out was being pushed down into my throat by the smile that had erupted across my face.

It was time to move on. It was time to go home.

No matter our pasts, there is a future that awaits us all.