[FICTION] Tales from Port Astor | Whispers 5

 

“Hello caller, you are on the air.”

“Whenever I get on the bus, I get nervous. Am I on the right bus? We’ve all done it—think we are boarding one line, and actually get on another. It sucks! It adds time, stress, and just messes with your entire morning. The worst part is the stares you get from others as you get more and more nervous. You  can always feel their eyes on me, and then the moisture starts, clothes cling, and they just stare. You try to notify the driver, but they just ignore you. Some of the more passive-aggressive drivers even tap the “no talking to the driver while in motion” sign. You just stand there. And panic.”

“Sitting there, you think that you can pull the cord, and get off at the next stop. Sure, it’s nowhere near where you are going, where you started, or anywhere else, but it stops you from going farther away. You pull the cord… and nothing. The bus keeps going. You keep pulling the cord, and it keeps making that stupid little ‘ding’, and everything just keeps going. You begin to panic ‘why can’t you all see me?!’ you say loud enough to be considered yelling by bus etiquette, and the most you get is an annoyed stare from some old church lady. You keep going. You look out the windows, and try to see where you are, try and come up with some sort of plan. You don’t. You can’t. You are helpless. The bus keeps moving, with you still on it, and you cannot stop it. It doesn’t care about your destination, only its own. The want of one individual meaningless to its course, and purpose, seemingly. You resign yourself. You take a seat. The bus keeps moving.”

“Time passes, and things move. You move, and keep doing so. You look out the window again, and the outside world is nothing that resembles where you thought you’d be. It’s dark, lit by only signs that you can no longer read. It’s dark, and the people look indifferent at best, and angry at worst. The bus… stops. Everyone gets off. You, stay. The bus continues to not move, and so do you. This wasn’t where you were supposed to be, but this spot is yours now. You’ve claimed it, and now they are telling you that it’s not actually yours. Nothing here is actually yours. Nothing changes. At some point, something has to. Do you stay there, the indifference you know, or do you venture out into the terrifying, alien night in hopes that maybe there is something better out there, past the terror? I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”

“Whenever I get on the bus, I get nervous.”

“Thank you, caller.”