The Bus Rider.

NSFW and pretty disgusting. That I free wrote this makes me ill. That I allowed it to get this far, despite the girl in front of me not being any of these things disgusts me to no end.

The girl in front of me smells funny. A sort of cross between slight rancidity and bile mixed with hopelessness and despair and a touch of whatever the latest perfume she can afford costs her. She is or at least was once a pretty girl or at least pretty to someone, if just for a convenient night of fornication and alcohol. Her voice is raspy, breath besotted with the scent of cheap cigarettes. She hates that she smokes and vows to quit weekly. If she can ‘just get through this week’ she swears to herself for what could be the five hundredth time.

I saw her look at me when I sat, a look of contempt in her eyes. That I’m not one of them, that I’m not a bus rider. Contempt that there is still hope in my eyes, and she would give anything to feel that way again. She hates me in the same way I hate her smell; we both wish the other didn’t exist.

She is right that I don’t belong with this scum, these failed experiments in entropy at the end of the evolutionary scope; Darwin’s worst case scenario. I have immediate distaste for each of the people on this bus, but, especially for this girl in front of me with the white jacket and the blue pigtail holder. I can’t help but look at her; no, be disgusted with her; no, have contempt with her, if only based on a quick glance that lasted milliseconds.

The girl read a book as I looked at her. It was a harlequin novel, completely disgusting and terrible literature. “My apologies. What are you reading?” I asked.

“A book my mother gave me. It’s not very good,” she replied, turning and looking at me, coldly. Her eyes matched her stupid hair; seemingly dyed beyond recognition of color, simply a color to fit a description of non-descriptiveness. Brown was the only apt explanation, if even that mattered. Flecks of gray and blonde peppered her long roots. She didn’t have the money to fix it.

“What’s the title?” I asked, feigning interest. She smiled slightly, and I knew I had her where I needed her, where I wanted her.

“Lust Cove,” she said with a laugh. I chuckled in reply, meaning none of it.

“My mother loved those books. She had a ton of them. Do you like reading them?”

“Sure,” she replied. “Sometimes,” she lied. Trashy romance was all she read. She’d wanted to read something deeper, something tougher, something to make her think, and yet, never did. Thinking wasn’t her strong suit.

I nodded. “If you’d like more of them, I have a ton in my basement from when my mother passed away. Tons of different authors. You’re welcome to get off at my stop and look, if you’re interested,” I pursed my lips as if I were going to cry, and looked down at my hands, holding together my lie. Her heart broke as she turned, giving me her full attention, rather than the side of her face. She had a long scar on her left cheek, I didn’t see before.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Was it recent?”

“About a month ago, yes.”

“I know how hard it is,” she replied, wanting to pat my shoulder or something. “I lost my dog a few weeks ago.”

I gave a half-smile to quell my rage that her real dog was somehow on par with the death with my fictional mother, the mother who kissed my pretend wounds, and the pretend mother who made me eggs and bacon with a smiley face. “Yeah, it’s tough,” I replied. “I’m newer in town, and I don’t know anyone, and now my car’s broken, so, here I am on the bus, talking to a stranger about my mother.”

“Stephanie,” she replied, matter of fact. Her eyes were brown, just like her hair. Vapid, dark pools of nothingness surrounded by bloodshot white eyes.

“I’m sorry?”

“My name is Stephanie, and now we’re not strangers. Your name is?”

“Pat.”

“Nice to meet you,” she smiled.

“Ditto,” I replied, turning to look out the window, as the snow coated houses passed by in a flurry of missed focus.

“If you’re interested in getting rid of those books, I’ll take some,” she said a few minutes later, moving to sit next to me. She was hefty, and the smell wasn’t her fault. Her hospital scrubs were soiled, and likely all she had to wear. I looked at them and she shrugged. “Bleeder. I’m a phlebotomist.”

“Okay. What stop do you get off the bus?”

“Fourth and Watson. You?”

“I can’t remember. I live off Cranston.” Her eyes lit up. People from Cranston were not normally bus riders. They had people to take them places, friends to drive them around. I had neither, established earlier.

“Oh, you want the Sixth Street stop then. It’ll get you the closest. I ride this way every day.”

I nodded. “Well, I can take you back home in my other car, if you want. It’d be no trouble.”

“Alright,” she smiled, her teeth crooked and painful. “It’s a date.”

I smiled at her, and looked out the window again, watching the world go by. She returned to her book, but I felt her stealing glances at me throughout the ride. She thought she’d found her salvation, that she’d walked into some, poor person’s sadness and would be there for time of need. She’d likely named our children by the time we exited at Sixth, and took the walk in the snow toward my home.

It was easier than I’d anticipated, and she turned out to be the aggressor, initially. A moment after walking through my front door, she pinned me against the wall, and kissed me with her minty cigarette breath. I was disgusted and barely caught my breath as she yanked her down jacket off to reveal herself to me, backing off as though she was revealing her to her future conquest. I soaked her in, surprisingly firm despite her size, pert and well-groomed. I took her immediately, and she gasped as I took control of her.

I walked her up the stairs to the second door on the right, and tossed her on the bed, removing her clothes up the stairs. She laughed as she tripped backward onto her fleshy, bare ass. I smiled weakly, knowing what I wanted, what I needed. And I took it.

Oh, did I take it. Had the neighbors been home, surely the police had been there. She was loud to a fault, louder than any I’d had previously, and much better than I’d expected from her sloppy exterior, as if she were bred for this, her body built as a receptacle for love and affection. She took everything I could give and felt as though she wanted more at each touch.

Less than an hour later, it was over. Her mouth hung agape, as her breath came in short, staccato spurts. Her eyes followed me off of her, beside her as she tried to roll over, her body betraying her with joy.

Or so she’d thought.

I smiled at her, the sharp corners of my mouth curling upward, almost unnaturally. She tried to speak, but, her mouth didn’t move, guttural noises escaping her throat followed by a laugh. Poor girl never noticed the tiny needle jammed into her behind. Her body must have been in the euphoric state, still not understanding what was about to happen to her.

I was amazing. I always was. She was mediocre. They always were.

“Shhh,” I said, putting my shirt back on. “You need to save your energy. You’re going to need it.”

Her body struggled now, muscles flexed, but no limbs moved. Her breath’s exhausted staccato heightened into a panic, a fear. She tried to speak but my hand covered her mouth. She tried to flex her jaw to bite me, but, it was useless. The Curare poison I’d used had kicked in, and her body became paralyzed. Tears rolled down her eyes as she looked at me. I kissed her forehead and stood up.

“You, my dear. You were wonderful,” I lied, though she was better than I’d thought. “I’m so sorry that this is happening to you, and if it’s any consolation, I was about to talk to the girl across the aisle when you caught my eye.”

She tried to cry, but her body stopped responding to her and finally lay limp Stephanie becoming a prisoner of her own body. The poison wouldn’t kill her, despite her fears and her tears. “Oh, honey,” I said, trying to put on my best reassuring voice and failing. “Honey, I don’t want to kill you. Not yet, anyway. That wouldn’t be very Christian of me. No, you rest right now and tomorrow, after I take little Ronnie and Bridget to school and get Mr. Mathewson to work, I’ll be back for you.

“We have a game to finish,” I pulled her bangs out of her face and kissed her lips. “Just in case I misjudged your weight, however I’m going to tie you up. Don’t worry about it if you’ve got to… tinkle. It’s okay. I can clean that.” I giggled at the word tinkle, after the vile words I’d spewed into this woman’s ear just a few moments previous.

After she’d been tied up, her throat making sobbing sounds, imperfectly formed, I stopped in the bathroom and adjusted my make-up, the three strands of pearls around my neck perfectly and my striped shirt kept my curves hidden, like a good Christian woman should. Little Ronnie had practice after school, and it was time to pick him up. With a deep breath, I dropped all emotion into the little bottle I carried inside me that was solely responsible for my actions this afternoon.

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