Reapers Ride Buses

“Come on, one more drink!”

           “Please?”

           I have a friend hanging off each arm, both begging me to stay and both already wasted.

           “I’m sorry, the last bus is due to arrive and you know taxis to my place are extortionate.”

           My two best friends, Susan and Molly, had convinced me to go drinking. Susan has just landed a dream job at a major radio station, and Molly just announced that she and her partner were moving in together. They wanted to celebrate their lives being on track and happily chugging forward.

           Mine, on the other hand, had taken a detour off the rails and was stranded in the middle of nowhere.

           I love my friends but I wasn’t overly enthused at being reminded of how stuck I am. Though I agreed to go and have tried to enjoy myself, I was in no mood to drink. For the last hour, all I could think of was my bed.

           As usual, they’d gotten carried away and forgotten that their tolerances are surprisingly low for how often they get drunk. Susan is pulling on my arm as she barely manages to stay standing, and Molly hugs the other like a child wrapping themselves around their parent’s leg.

           Despite my low mood, I smile at them, knowing that in the morning they’ll swear they’re never getting drunk again.

           Molly gives me her best puppy eyes, which could make most people crumble. “Come on, we could split the taxi.”

           “Or you could come back with one of us!” Susan chimes in.

           Molly’s eyes light up. “Sleepover! Yes, come on, Ange, let’s do it!”

           “I have snacks,” adds Susan.

           “See? Soos has snacks!”

           “Many snacks,” says Susan, her head swaying slightly.

           “Many snacks! So please, pretty please, for us?”

           They both start giving me wide eyes but whilst I didn’t want to disappoint them, I really want to get back to my own bed.

           “I’m sorry guys, I need to get up early tomorrow.” Which is a lie, “and if I don’t go now, I’ll really miss that bus and I already have a return ticket.” Another lie.

           I have nowhere to be in the morning and I bought a pack of single journey tickets on my bus app, but the more I think about bed, the more it calls to me like a siren song.

           Alice, Molly’s partner, steps forward and puts her hands on Molly’s shoulders, slowly pulling her away. “Babe, if she wants to go, you shouldn’t try to stop her. We can stay out a bit longer then go home and have some fun.”

           I have no problems with Alice, though sometimes I get the impression she doesn’t like me. Maybe I’m just imagining things, but during the evening she has shot me a few glances that made me shift in my seat as she bent and whispered into Molly’s ear or kissed her neck.

           With a pout, Molly melts into Alice’s arms and peels away from my arm. Susan shakes her head, her hair brushing against my cheek.

           Susan squeezes my arm. “Let us know when you’re back, okay?”

           “Of course. You too.”

           We hug briefly and Susan staggers back to the others, though she switches direction towards the bar when she sees Alice and Molly making out. I don’t expect she will stay out much longer either.

           The cold air grips me and makes my face tingle when I step outside. It’s that time of spring when it could be either winter or summer at any given moment. Tonight, it’s winter.

           The bus stop is a couple of streets away, and with every other step, I cock my head, thinking someone is following me. There are still enough people around that it’s probably someone walking the same way, but I still put a hand into my pocket and clutch my keys.

           I hunch in the corner of the bus shelter and wrap my arms around myself, trying not to shiver. Though I have a jacket, it’s more suitable for a cool brush of a summer night, not the bite of winter darkness.

           A few people pass by, including a few men, their shoulders held up against their ears and their hands in their pockets. I keep my eyes down, avoiding eye contact with any of them and the obligation of giving them that friendly half-smile that keeps a distance but hides that I find them suspicious and unnerving. Each time someone walks past, I hold my breath and only release it when they are out of sight again.

           This happens a few times in the ten minutes I sit waiting for the bus, and when it pulls up, it opens its doors with a hissing exhale that I match.

           I scan one of my tickets and take a seat in the middle of the bus, noting only two other passengers; an old woman bent forward in her seat with a cow-print trolley next to her, and a boy who looks to be in his mid-teens and is drowning in a black hoodie and bulky headphones.

           The doors shunk shut and the bus rumbles forward, passing several stops. Lights blur past and leave spots of light in my vision. I look around the dimly, but evenly lit inside of the bus, sparing brief glances at my fellow passengers and wondering what an old lady and a teenager are doing out so late. The old woman has her eyes closed and her hands wrapped around the top of the seats in front of her. Across from me, the teenager rolls his neck and stretches his arms in front of him, his hands interlocked. His nails are painted black.

           When I turn to look ahead of me, the lights outside glint off something metallic in the corner of my eye. The teenager has taken out a knife and has started using the point to clean under his nails.

           I frown and whip my head to stare at him. For a few moments, he doesn’t notice my gaze, but when he innocently sweeps his eyes around and meets mine, he freezes for a second before he continues cleaning his nails.

           “Wait!” My exclamation catches the boy by surprise, his knife slips, and he draws his hands to his chest with a face twisted in pain and confusion. “I’m so sorry, are you alright?” I keep my voice low enough not to disturb the old lady.

           The boy looks up, raises his eyebrows, and pushed his headphones back around his neck. “You can see me?”

           My mouth bends up in one corner and I chuff, “Don’t most people see you?”

           “Not really, no.” His voice is even, with no traces of a joke.

           I don’t know how to respond to this so I decide to state the obvious. “You should be more careful. In fact, you shouldn’t have that all. Do your parents know?”

           He answers with another question. “Who are you?”

           My mouth opens and closes before it settles on “Ange.”

           “Angeline Thomas, born May eighth, 1998, death…not yet.”

           “What are you talking about? How do you…”

           “You shouldn’t be able to see me.” The boy covers his ears again, trying to end the conversation, but I won’t let it end there.

           I reach forward and put a hand on his arm, but he yanks it back like my touch burns through his sleeve.

           I automatically apologise but remember what I wanted to say. “No, wait, how did you know my name and when I was born? And what was that about my death?”

           He groans and drags a hand down his face. “Look, just forget it, me.”

           “Kinda difficult. How do you know so much about me?”

           Before the boy answers, the next stop is announced and he sits up straight before clambering up. He pushes past me and goes over to the old woman, whispering something in her ear, and then returns to his seat.

           The woman sits up, presses the stop button, and shuffles off the bus, and we carry on without a word.

           She becomes a blur on the pavement and I turn back to the boy. “What did you say to her.”

           He arches an eyebrow and a smirk plasters itself across his mouth as he sits back and crosses his arm. His mouth twitches like he is tasting the words before he uses them.

           “I told Miriam – that’s her name – that she will wake up, get off the bus, go home, and get into bed. When her granddaughter visits her in the morning, she will discover her in her bed, still asleep. She will try to wake her grandmother up, but she will fail and realise the inevitable has finally happened.”

           My stomach twists into knots at his casual tone as he describes that old woman dying and being found the next morning. Mostly my gut is tied by anger, sadness, and confusion, but for a second, the hands of envy yank it tighter. For a second, I wish I could also lie down and not have to wake up again, that it was so easy and casual.

           The boy interrupts my thoughts. “Don’t worry, that isn’t how it will be for you.”

           “How do you know?”

           He shrugs. “I just do.”

           Then my years of fantasy reading kick in and I ask, “Are you some kind of demon?”

           This makes him laugh. “Do I look like a demon?”

           I have to admit, all I see before me is a teenager going through his emo phase. A teenager with a knife, who knows how an old woman was going to die and who knows when I was born even though we have never met and I am several years older than him.

           “You look like a teenager. Not much difference.”

           Laughter barks from his chest and he twists in his seat to face me, propping his elbow on the seat and leaning his head on his knuckles. It is a position with confidence I would expect from a much older man.

           Amusement still twinkles in his eyes as he looks me up and down, and I get the impression he is looking beyond my clothes, my skin, to the hidden words within.

           “You’ve thought about it before. Dying, I mean.”

           It is a statement; he knows the truth of it without needing to ask.

           I look down, my hands suddenly interesting. I don’t know why; a lot of people think about dying, wondering how it will happen, and plenty of them think about taking control of their own deaths. My fingers drift to my left wrist, the ridges subtle, but they may as well be mountains to my knowing touch.

           “But not yet.”

           Without looking up, I ask, “Are you saying you know when I’ll die? How?”

           “Even if I did, I wouldn’t say. And if you’re asking how I know, you’ve already got an idea about that. If you’re asking how you’ll die, I wouldn’t say that either, even if I did know. How you die doesn’t matter to me anyway.”

           Something bristles down the back of my neck. I don’t know this boy, I don’t even know what he is, yet hearing him dismiss my death as something so inconsequential makes my whole body clench.

           My stop is announced and I press the button. As the bus jolts to a stop, I stand and stride off without looking at the boy – or whatever he is. It takes me a few minutes to reach my block of flats, and when I approach the main door and dig for my keys, my heavy breathing is not from the walk. That maddeningly casual tone runs through my head and I start muttering curses under my breath.

           When I push into my tiny flat and kick off my shoes, my first thought is I really need to clean. Shoes are scattered, separated from their partners, clothes hang on chairs, and a couple of dishes are ready to start a family next to my sink. Instead of getting started, I throw myself back on my bed and sling an arm over my eyes with an audible sigh even though nobody is around to hear or care.

           “You’re upset.”

           I jerk upright and sitting in my desk chair is the boy from the bus. Given our previous conversation and the general exhaustion catching up to me, I cannot bring myself to be surprised. Though I don’t know what exactly he is, I know at least that this boy is not exactly normal, not exactly human.

           “I’m just tired.”

           He looks around my flat with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve been tired for a long time.”

           “Tell me something I don’t know.”

           He fixes his gaze on me, his sincere when he says, “It won’t last.”

           The boy flashes a small smile before he stands up and walks out of my flat, playing with his knife on his way out.

           My door clicks shut and I stare at it, blinking after several moments and assuring myself that he was gone. If I had a clock, its ticking would be the only sound in my flat for several minutes aside from the occasional shuffling as I switch positions.

           Though I had originally felt exhaustion overtaking me, the boy’s exit brings a new wave of energy. My legs start bouncing and my hands fidget with whatever is in reach. I can’t sit still.

           Shoes reunite with long-lost lovers, the dish family are separated, and clothes find their way into the wash basket. In less than an hour I stand in the middle of my flat, the tidiest it’s been in weeks, months even. Though the boy’s casual and almost flippant nature grates in my skull, it keeps two things he said echoing in my ears as I tidy.

           But not yet.

           It won’t last.