Bus ride

(a translated version of the story Strætó ferð)

I step on the bus and nod politely to the driver. The change that had been playing symphonies deep in my pockets celebrated the new found freedom until they fell into the great depth of the glass fare box. I was greeted with warm stale air. A lonely fly tried to get attention while the teenager in the corner kept his head down. Rainbow colored beams found their way through the windows in an effortless attempt to wake an older man sitting on a bench in the back. I sat down just as the bus hobbled on. Black shiny symbolic pictures resembling the natives cave paintings in front of me. No concerns about the destination, printed on the back of a chair. Lovely music coming from a radio in the background. A young woman starts to sing along.  She jumps up, blushes and sinks lower in the seat. A moment of reality.

The chairs gray-blue lining seductively blinks new passengers and offers them a seat. Shameless despite the raveled edges and spots. A green scarf drags a woman into the bus. They sit down next to me. I hesitate pointing out the fact that the seat is meant for two. The green scarf flows over the both of us.

The bus stops. 4 life's in, 3 life's out.

We move slowly. The ride in perfect correspondence with the stale air. Stuck in an empty space. An ageless boy in a yellow sweater looks up from a heavy book. He looks surprised. His mind still stuck in a world of adventures.

A group of children rush in. The silence scatters like broken glass into millions of pieces. The sunbeams sigh when the man in the back jumps up from a light blue dream. The children spread. One kills the fly with his thumb, without even blinking, the organs stain the former transparent wall. The others sit in a crowd. I try to make out their words and hope that nobody notices. Are they discussing world domination? I don’t even have the courage to glance my eyes at them. The green scarf is not as cautious. She looks at them. I think she told them to keep it down. My heart pounds in my chest. Taste of blood in my mouth.

Silence, cold, thick. Then they start playing with their exchange tickets. My bus stop is getting closer, I push the button. The bright red saviour. When I walk past them I see armours in the making. The points of the paper shuttles sharpened. The bus comes to a stop. They fly. The green scarf is the first one to get hit, straight in the heart. Careful aim. The grey-blue lining soaked in blood. I step out and the birds sing.