becs

Wrote this in a few minutes. I'm not sure if I should leave this a short story or make it longer.

***************************

Eyes glued to the window, Jennie watched snow covered trees fly by. It was so easy to lose ones self in the steady rhythm of the city bus, and the whirling dance of freshly falling snow outside half fogged windows.

The bus was warm, a great relief from the below zero temperatures outside, yet the hood of Jennie’s winter coat still covered her head; hot or cold, neither mattered to her. Raised, her hood shielded Jennie from the other passengers and plunged her face into a comforting shadow. As usual she was sitting in the back of the bus, burrowed into the farthest corner that she could find. Torn and ragged, Jennie’s backpack was pressed against her right side, the side not protected by the window. Like her hood, the backpack formed a wall between Jennie and everyone else. She needed that wall. Walls were important. Walls were safe.

Slowing to a stop, the bus doors opened, and a mother with her child stepped on. The driver greeted them with the half-feinged interest of someone who has had along day, and would like nothing more than to return to their favorite chair with a beer in one hand and a remote control in the other.

Jennie’s hunched shoulders shifted slightly as she watched the little girl and her mother make their way up the narrow isle of seats. The woman was slightly plump with an open kind face and twinkling blue eyes, one hand was absently brushing snow from her coat while the other held tightly onto her daughter.

Bundled up tightly in a cheery coat and snow pants, the little girl, the woman’s daughter, was wearing so many layers of clothing that she could have rolled down the isle. That was the sure sign of a concerned parent, smothering their child with unneeded layers of clothing to guard against the cold.

There was something else that sliced like a razor through Jennies mind; it was the little girl’s snow boots. They were bright pink and brand new, not even the tiniest smudge or fleck of dirt marred the gleaming cloth.

As the pair sat down, their backs to her, Jennie self-consciously tucked both feet under the seat. Four dollars, that was how much Jennie had paid for her tennis shoes. When she bought them at the thrift store they only looked like they had been worn once, maybe twice. Now they were old and stained; the laces on the left shoe had broken several times and were riddled with knots from where they had been tied back together. No one would guess that originally Jennie’s shoes had been white. Long ago they had turned a murky brown color that no amount of soap could clean.

On the toe of one shoe was a large spot; it stood out sharply like an exclamation point. Now dry, the spot looked almost black. Jennie didn’t like to think about that spot.

Turning a sharp corner the bus hit a bump and her backpack slammed to the floor, an unwanted intrusion on the silence that covered the bus. Even though Jennie saw it fall, she still jumped at the noise.

Bending over, she gasped softly pain shot through her back. The movement stretched sore muscles and fresh bruises. Winter chapped hands, their nails ragged and torn, grasped the backpack and heaved it off the floor. Once the backpack was securely pressed against her side, Jennie turned her attention back to the window, and the falling snow outside, losing herself once again to the familiar rhythm of the bus.

A lock of hair had fallen in front of her eyes when she bent down. Reaching a hand up, Jennie tucked it back behind one ear. Accidentally her fingers brushed the hood of her coat and knocked it back. For one frightened moment she froze.

An old man, most of his hair gone, had turned in his seat and was staring at her.

A rare flash of defiance sprinted across Jennie’s face. She turned toward the old man. Shoulders straightened slightly, though they didn’t lose their cowed look. Locking her gaze with the man, she pushed the hair from her face, daring him to say something…secretly wanting him to say something.

Jennie knew what he saw; long mouse brown hair framed high cheekbones and what might have been called a pretty mouth, if it wasn’t permanently frozen in a snarl or a cringe. The bruise on her left eye had begun to fade. No longer an angry black purple, it was slowly changing to green. That bruise was old, the caked blood on a split lip and the cut on her cheek were not.

Seconds ticked by as slowly as hours and then man looked away, his expression unreadable. A mixture of relief, shame, and shattered hope filled her.

Fingers hurriedly slammed the hood back over her face and Jennie was again protected by familiar shadow.

Unbidden, she found her attention returning back to the little girl and her mother. The girl was sitting on her mother’s lap, pointing out the window to blurred objects that swam by. Her arms around her daughter’s waist, the woman tried kept the excited child from leaping out of the seat. Jennie couldn’t see the mother’s face, but she bet that the woman was smiling.

I bet she doesn’t yell at her daughter. I bet she doesn’t…images flashed through Jennie’s head. Hastily she shoved them away. Driving them out of her mind, she locked them tightly away till they were nothing but a ball in her stomach. It was not safe to feel that much. Not safe at all.

Turning back to the window, she anchored her gaze on the white snow and passing trees. Jennie didn’t turn back to the women and her daughter again.

Moments passed before a familiar emptiness filled her. Emotions were dangerous. Being empty meant she couldn’t feel the pain. Being empty was safe.

The bus went around a corner, and Jennie recognized the buildings. Reaching a hand up, she pulled the yellow cord, letting the driver know the next stop was hers. The bus slowed and Jennie stood, making her way to the back door. Seconds later she was standing in the cool winter air.

Apartment buildings loomed up around her. Their paint chipped porches and sheet covered windows scowling down at her in disappointment.

Large snowflakes tumbled through the air, dancing a graceful ballet. Jennie loved the snow. So clean, so pure. Snow was perfect; it didn’t have any spots or imperfections.

Glancing down both sides of the street and into open windows Jennie made sure no one was watching before pushing back the hood of her jacket. Tilting her head back, she stuck out her tongue catching the pure white drops in her mouth. In the cold air, her cheeks rosy and a faint smile on her lips, a passerby might have called her pretty. That was if the smile had reached Jennie’s dead eyes.

A block away, the sound of an approaching car jerked her back to the present. Sharp hearing was something that had saved Jennie before. Immediately the hood was pulled down over her face, and she stood, frozen on the sidewalk like a trapped animal, waiting for the car to drive by.

Moments passed before reality could cut through the fear that clouded her brain. A truck. Green. It was a green truck. Not a blue Plymouth. A green truck. Winter air turned white as Jennie let out a sight, not realizing that she had been holding her breath the whole time.

Standing there she waited for the pounding of her heart to slow. She did not relax, not even as several minutes ticked by. Jennie never relaxed, not fully. Her jaw was clenched in a permanent vice.

Did anyone else feel this way? Where their dreams also filled with dark hallways and running footsteps?

In one of the nearby apartments a telephone ran. Jennie jumped at the sound, her heart beating like a drum in her chest.

Tucking both arms through the worn straps of her backpack she began to run... no flee. Small legs pumped in a frenzied motion as she scurried down the street. The right arm of her jacket skimmed the apartment buildings as she ran. Jennie felt safer when she could touch the buildings; when there was something solid for her to hold onto.

Unseen, a trail of fresh foot prints stretched behind Jennie. The soles of the shoes that had made these prints were worn smooth. Worn but not cracked. Not yet.
*********************

__________________
Society honors its living conformists and its dead trouble makers -
Mignon Mclaughlin

Kat

It's good, I defintely think that you could continue it if you wanted.

__________________
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night. -Sarah Williams