a collection of vague short stories I wrote on public transport and waiting in lines (they're about life and stuff and possibly a dozen more things)
some tw: (to note these below may appear occasionally in content)
-references/implications of mental illness
-violence
-strong language
some tw: (to note these below may appear occasionally in content)
-references/implications of mental illness
-violence
-strong language
will be updated periodically
walking forward It's like the fiftieth time I've walked down this hall and I still feel queasy. I've stopped keeping track of how many times I've passed the same doors, the same paintings on the wall, and I've stopped keeping track of how many times (every one of them) I felt queasy and ashamed.
It's far too quiet but I don't want to see anyone.
Why are you here, they'd ask and I'd have to make up some stupid fucking lie and beat ass out of there and end up dry heaving in the toilet. This fucking corridor.
My hands are sticky with sweat and I wipe them on my jeans, willing my body to just stop already. But my heart won't stop jumping and my mouth won't stop drying out.
I stop in front of the too familiar beige door. There are the same papers and colourful decorations stuck on it; I've memorised what's on all of them.
I raise my knuckle, feeling, like always, that I'm crossing (or plunging off) a chasm, and I knock.
It swings open a long second later and she stands there, and I swear I see exasperation in her eyes, a lets get this over with look, flicker and pass. Then she smiles hugely, the same big smile every week.
Come on in, she says, and it's followed by the all too familiar, so how are you feeling today?
after school ritual
The scenery- mostly cars and long winding roads and mountains- rolls past me as my head bumps against the window, vision lulling but thoughts racing ahead. The bus will never be able to catch up.
I clutch my bag tighter, willing myself to fall asleep. I never can, no matter how tired I am. No matter how much I feel like death and unable to reach the end of the week without keeling over.
Perks of hour long bus rides I suppose.
I stumble off at my stop and head into the mall, not looking at anyone, and head into one of the mall’s diners. The smell of oil and grease hits me like a familiar stranger, and I order the same thing I always order. A large bowl of ramen, a plate of chicken wings, a large strawberry milkshake. A little too much for a snack in between meals, a little too heavy, a little too unhealthy. It’s just a crutch, I tell myself, as if that justifies anything.
Smoking is also a crutch. So’s reckless driving. So’s drinking to the brink of alcoholism. Whatever, I think. It could be worse. Like that justifies anything either.
I settle down and I set my phone in front of me to lean against my milkshake. I play the latest episode of this satirical comedy I follow. I eat my food. I drag this as on as possible.
My phone sounds at least half a dozen times but I think, not now. Not now, later. I’m too tired, not now.
Half an hour I reluctantly hitch my heavy school bag over my shoulders and head out onto the street towards home.
There will be nobody there, I know that, not until 7 or 8 at night when the sun has set and the streets overflow with middle class workers coming home from work.
I will do my work, I will lie down for a while but not fall asleep, because every day is the same and I know.
Series unfinished. More parts to be added soon.