Finally, the morning came, and outwardly, I treated it as if it were any other day. I made sure to wear comfortable clothes that wouldn't draw too much attention to me, so I wore my beige hoodie, a pair of plain jeans, a gray toboggan, and a white pair of sneakers that I thought would last a long time before wearing out. After all, I figured I'd be doing a lot of walking in the future.
My aunt and uncle are both lawyers, working at their very own firm downtown. They said they'd been working on something big lately, so they'd already left early in the morning, and because my bus wouldn't even reach the station until 8, there was no need to rush myself out the door. I had plenty of time to check and recheck all my things. I'd been preparing for so long that I would've hated for something to go wrong right then. I made sure to leave a note, not telling my aunt and uncle exactly where I was headed, but I did tell them that this was my own decision--that I'd be okay on my own and call them as soon as possible to let them know. They would still call the cops, of course, but not until they got home late in the night.
I left the house at 7:30, as if I was walking to school on any other day, except this time I had my book bag slung across one shoulder and a suitcase strapped over the other. No one paid attention to me as I walked along the sidewalk, but I saw them. I saw them from the corner of my eye, when they were not what they appeared to be. The paperboy was a mass of small, writhing things, and the man and his dog walking across the street were two moving amorphous blobs, void of any features but keeping their relative sizes. The truck that drove past me was pulsating and vaguely organic, like an enormous, beating heart traveling down the street. I try not to look at the world too much this way. It's too distracting and usually leaves me questioning my sanity. But sometimes I just can't help it. I don't ask how or why, either. Some things just happen. It could be a trick of the light, or some signals misfiring in my brain, or I could be seeing something hidden just below the surface of the real world. That latter possibility scares me the most, but I try to ignore what I see. That only occasionally works. I'm mostly used to it by now.
I made it to the bus station at a quarter 'til eight. It was a lot smaller than I thought it would be, with a dirty gray interior and the strong smell of ammonia that made me sick to my stomach. My hand was shaking a bit when I walked up to the counter, but I managed to keep myself under control as I spoke to the large man behind the counter. I explained to him how I'd bought my ticket online and that I'd printed off a receipt, which I handed to him. He didn't look at me much, which suited me just fine. He had an enormous head, but with dark, beady eyes that didn't quite seem right as the light from the computer screen below him lit up his face with a pale blue light.
He printed something off and handed it to me--my ticket. He didn't say anything else, not even thank you or have a pleasant trip. He didn't seem the type, anyway. Besides, the less people that pay attention to me at this point, the better. I made a conscious effort to not look at the clerk from the corner of my eye as I took a seat in a row of bolted-down, orange plastic chairs.
I sat in the station for the next ten minutes, breathing through my mouth to stop the strong, bitter smell of cleaning supplies from seeping into my nostrils. It didn't work--not the way I'd intended, anyway. Instead, the odor was so powerful that I could taste it, lingering in the back of my throat and reminding me way too much of the sort of solution used to clean up vomit. I decided to wait outside.
The bus couldn't have pulled up at a better time. I hadn't even sat down on one of the cold, metal benches when it swung around the side of the building and came to a stop right in front of me. The door opened, folding like an accordion, and a few ragged-looking people emerged. They descended the two large steps below the door and filed past with tired, mindless faces, disappearing completely into the station. Still, nobody looked at me. For once, it looked like things were working out in my favor.
I climbed the first step of the bus and leaned the rest of the way in, double-checking with the driver to make sure this was my bus. He looked at me like I was stupid--like I was a kid, I guess--and let out an exasperated, "Yes." So I climbed the rest of the way inside, and he checked my ticket and handed it back without another word, only bothering to gesture toward the back of the bus. I caught his drift and wandered off toward the back, looking for a place to sit.
There weren't many people on board, but they all shared the same tired, defeated look as those who had just left for the odor-laden comfort of the bus station and the still earth beneath their feet. I found a row all to myself in the back, and as I sat down, I wondered where all the other riders had come from to look so horrible. I imagine they must have come down from somewhere up north, somewhere far away, at any rate. Then I began to wonder if I'd look the same when I finally reached California. I tried to promise myself I wouldn't, but I know there are some things that you just can't help, being beaten down by the world around you is one of them.
So I sat, and I waited. Now here I am--still sitting, still waiting. I'd hoped that we would leave on time, but it's been twenty minutes now with no sign of movement. It was long enough for me to take out a fresh journal and start writing, though. I should have plenty of time to write and read while I'm traveling. For right now, though, I'll bear with the constant hum of the engine and the vibration of the entire bus. It's all a small price to pay for what I'm expecting to find--freedom, whatever that is.
My aunt and uncle are both lawyers, working at their very own firm downtown. They said they'd been working on something big lately, so they'd already left early in the morning, and because my bus wouldn't even reach the station until 8, there was no need to rush myself out the door. I had plenty of time to check and recheck all my things. I'd been preparing for so long that I would've hated for something to go wrong right then. I made sure to leave a note, not telling my aunt and uncle exactly where I was headed, but I did tell them that this was my own decision--that I'd be okay on my own and call them as soon as possible to let them know. They would still call the cops, of course, but not until they got home late in the night.
I left the house at 7:30, as if I was walking to school on any other day, except this time I had my book bag slung across one shoulder and a suitcase strapped over the other. No one paid attention to me as I walked along the sidewalk, but I saw them. I saw them from the corner of my eye, when they were not what they appeared to be. The paperboy was a mass of small, writhing things, and the man and his dog walking across the street were two moving amorphous blobs, void of any features but keeping their relative sizes. The truck that drove past me was pulsating and vaguely organic, like an enormous, beating heart traveling down the street. I try not to look at the world too much this way. It's too distracting and usually leaves me questioning my sanity. But sometimes I just can't help it. I don't ask how or why, either. Some things just happen. It could be a trick of the light, or some signals misfiring in my brain, or I could be seeing something hidden just below the surface of the real world. That latter possibility scares me the most, but I try to ignore what I see. That only occasionally works. I'm mostly used to it by now.
I made it to the bus station at a quarter 'til eight. It was a lot smaller than I thought it would be, with a dirty gray interior and the strong smell of ammonia that made me sick to my stomach. My hand was shaking a bit when I walked up to the counter, but I managed to keep myself under control as I spoke to the large man behind the counter. I explained to him how I'd bought my ticket online and that I'd printed off a receipt, which I handed to him. He didn't look at me much, which suited me just fine. He had an enormous head, but with dark, beady eyes that didn't quite seem right as the light from the computer screen below him lit up his face with a pale blue light.
He printed something off and handed it to me--my ticket. He didn't say anything else, not even thank you or have a pleasant trip. He didn't seem the type, anyway. Besides, the less people that pay attention to me at this point, the better. I made a conscious effort to not look at the clerk from the corner of my eye as I took a seat in a row of bolted-down, orange plastic chairs.
I sat in the station for the next ten minutes, breathing through my mouth to stop the strong, bitter smell of cleaning supplies from seeping into my nostrils. It didn't work--not the way I'd intended, anyway. Instead, the odor was so powerful that I could taste it, lingering in the back of my throat and reminding me way too much of the sort of solution used to clean up vomit. I decided to wait outside.
The bus couldn't have pulled up at a better time. I hadn't even sat down on one of the cold, metal benches when it swung around the side of the building and came to a stop right in front of me. The door opened, folding like an accordion, and a few ragged-looking people emerged. They descended the two large steps below the door and filed past with tired, mindless faces, disappearing completely into the station. Still, nobody looked at me. For once, it looked like things were working out in my favor.
I climbed the first step of the bus and leaned the rest of the way in, double-checking with the driver to make sure this was my bus. He looked at me like I was stupid--like I was a kid, I guess--and let out an exasperated, "Yes." So I climbed the rest of the way inside, and he checked my ticket and handed it back without another word, only bothering to gesture toward the back of the bus. I caught his drift and wandered off toward the back, looking for a place to sit.
There weren't many people on board, but they all shared the same tired, defeated look as those who had just left for the odor-laden comfort of the bus station and the still earth beneath their feet. I found a row all to myself in the back, and as I sat down, I wondered where all the other riders had come from to look so horrible. I imagine they must have come down from somewhere up north, somewhere far away, at any rate. Then I began to wonder if I'd look the same when I finally reached California. I tried to promise myself I wouldn't, but I know there are some things that you just can't help, being beaten down by the world around you is one of them.
So I sat, and I waited. Now here I am--still sitting, still waiting. I'd hoped that we would leave on time, but it's been twenty minutes now with no sign of movement. It was long enough for me to take out a fresh journal and start writing, though. I should have plenty of time to write and read while I'm traveling. For right now, though, I'll bear with the constant hum of the engine and the vibration of the entire bus. It's all a small price to pay for what I'm expecting to find--freedom, whatever that is.
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