The Bus Stop Boy

I hate my job. And it’s not a normal hate. You know those hates where you just turn around and say, “Fuck! I hate (insert hated entity).” And you grumble and groan all the way home. Perhaps you cry about it or you journal about it, or you blog about it. But, after a few days, the hate begins to dissipate into a manageable grievance. But listen to this; I hate my job as much as Hitler loved the Jews. I hate my job as much as Kim Jong-il loved his citizens. I hate my job so much that I will inflict personal injury so that I don’t have to show up. Ok, that part’s not true… don’t call the loony bin on me or anything.

I’ll cut right to the chase… So I get off a quarter past 6 and I need some food in a major way. I’m so hungry I feel like puking and crying. The downside is that I have to take a 15 minute bus ride then walk another 10 minutes to my apartments. I put in my headphones and listen to Pink.

I step into the shelter of the bus stop and sit next to the only other person waiting. Of course, it’s a cute boy. He’s cute as fuck. I’m such a sucker for the pretty boys. You know the ones with kinda long, soft looking hair with a nice chiseled chin and perfect lips with blue eyes like cut sapphires. Always the blue eyes. Sometimes green, but, ew. His dirty blonde hair hid half his face. Luckily, the exposed part was nearest to me which made me happy. Although, he seemed like one of those emo types. He was slouching and wearing that permanent expression of frowning eyes and pressed lips. He looked close to my age, or a couple years older like twenty maybe. I pulled one of my earbuds out, the sound of traffic and tires cutting through puddles of water on the rain-slicked streets now apparent to me.

I said, “hey.”

He slowly turned his head in my direction and suddenly I was snapped back to reality. Why the hell did I feel compelled to talk to him? Seriously, why, why, why?

“Hi,” he said before turning away.

I smiled. Well, I should probably just end it here to save myself from embarrassment. I sit up and begin lightly drumming my hands against my lap. I glance over at him several times to make sure he’s still as gorgeous as I remember. Dammit! I couldn’t shake this feeling that I had to talk to him. It was like destiny crept into my body and was pressing me forward, whispering in my ear telling me to make conversation here. But why? Maybe he’ll fuck me. The thought sent warmth through my stomach and between my legs. I quietly cleared my throat and said, “Where are you from?”

He gave me a puzzled look. “Why do you ask?”

“Um, I was just wondering if you’re from around here or whatever, I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter where I’m from.”

“Ok,” I said. What the fuck, man? This guy’s playing it rough. I’ll bet most girls give up and shy away at this point, but not me.

“Do you work or got to school?” I asked.

“Why the fuck are you talking to me?”

I just sat and stared.

“Seriously, why the fuck are you talking to me? I don’t even know you.”

“I’m just being nice,” I said.

“Fuck nice. It’s rude to bother strangers that mind their own business. What makes you think I give a shit about you or anything you say?”

Oh my god. This guy is fucking rude, and a little crazy. “Sorry,” I said before scooting a couple inches away. He scoffed at me before digging into his back pack.

“I’ve just been having a bad day, a bad week. Shit, a bad life,” he said.
I smiled again. “I understand. I work over at that convenient store on the corner and it’s terrible. I honestly think it might be one of the worst jobs in the world.”

“I was talking about how my mom was murdered by my dad a couple days ago and my sister’s a runaway meth addict and I have nothing left to love. Not even myself.”

Shit. He started to laugh.

“It’s funny though.. Once you lose everything you thought was important to you, it gives you a lot of time to think. You have all this time to reflect on what it was you loved and why you loved it,” he said. “It also empties you out, carves all sorts of holes in you that you can’t fill up ever again. I just feel like there are too many holes now. There’s nothing I can do to feel better.”

I said, “Now that’s not true. I bet there are-“

I paused and stared dumbly at the boy who now held a pistol in his hand and wore a small smile on his face. The entire situation was so hypnotizing. “What’s that?” I said.

“Medicine,” he said before shoving the barrel into his mouth and pulling the trigger.

The sudden explosion of blood and flesh painted the interior of the bus stop and splashed across my face. I felt a chunk get lodged in my mouth and savored the metallic icing on my lips. Half of his head was gone, leaving behind flaps of skin and hair dangling on all sides. His lifeless body slowly collapsed to the floor as if resting from a tiring day. And in a way, that’s what he was trying to do.

I suddenly lost my appetite.

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3 thoughts on “The Bus Stop Boy

    1. Paige! I appreciate the comment very much. Feedback is very important to me right now as I begin figuring out my style and voice. Thanks for reading, you’re awesome 🙂

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