Echobelly - Four Letter Word

My deepest emotions,
Nothing more than chemical equations,
Symphonies of stimulants,
Swimming round in a beating gland,
Really caused a traffic jam.

Here's to love, here's to hate,
Here's to everything that makes me realise,

This is a four letter word.

 

The Worthy Judge: Chapter 3 - Four Letter Word

 

The bus journey shows me why I used to steal cars to get from A to Z, crashing through B, C, D and E on the way.

A few minutes into my journey and a woman moves to take the seat next to me: mid-forties, not pristine but not dirty, she has clean nails. She reminds me of my neighbour in the motel I was staying. Through the paper walls I could hear her being slapped around by her pimp/clients/whatever. The first night I tried to help. I pounded on the door. She answered, drugged, drunk, generally fucked, and I felt like I was eight, staring up at my mom. She used every curse and some new ones I hadn't heard of, slamming the door in my face.

I remember thinking, '"maybe this is my Hell? The bad girl trying to be someone's saviour but no-one will let her?" If I'd had any sense of humour left I'd have laughed at the irony. I didn't so I stayed silent.

"Do you have anything to drink?" my neighbour rasps out of a throat showing decades of cigarette abuse.

I stare at my one bottle of apple juice. The only thing I could afford to bring with me. My one possession.

What are you willing to give up? A slice of cherry-pie and cream? Your last bottle of apple juice? Or your life? It's all about sacrifices.

"Sure. Here."

"Thanks, honey."

She takes a small bottle out. I hear the childproof clicks of the lid, reminding me of the bottles of pills we used to keep in the house when I was small. Red pills for sad days, yellow pills for happy days, blue pills for when nothing else worked, and white pills for when it all got too much.

I take a deep breath, staring out of the window, not happy with all of the remembering this time of the year brings. But that's the true version of punishment, isn't it? Being left with too much knowledge in your own head. You can't get away from yourself, not when you're all you have.

"I hate travelling so I'm going to knock myself out for the journey. Do you want to swap seats so you can get to the restroom?"

I don't have anything to drink that needs getting out now.

"You're okay. I like the window. If I'm desperate I'll climb over."

She smiles at me. A real smile, a happy smile as she pops two pills, chasing them down with my juice.

"I'll be out like a light in ten minutes. Are you going home for Christmas?"

Going home? Not now the person who made it feel like that was is dead. No.

"Something like that."

"It's a great time for family."

She pats my leg affectionately then settles back, closing her eyes. I stare at the piece of my thigh she touched, curiously thinking this is what it's like to be touched by someone whose heart is still beating and isn't looking to rip your head off.

"Yeah. All about those family reunions."

I look out of the window, watching different, but the same, places going by. I close my eyes and decide to catch up with some sleep.

######

My eyes flick open with a start and I try to get to my feet, panicking, sweating, scared, fingers clawing at the seat in front of me, only stopping when I see I'm still on the bus and there's no reason to be flipping out like a freak. I lick my lips and sit back down, thankful no-one's noticed.

I stare out of the window as we pass the 'Welcome to Sunnydale' sign.

If ever there was a reason to panic…

######

         
The bus grinds to a halt and my pill popping neighbour wakes up all bright and perky as if an alarm clock sounded. Unlike me, I feel like I look: tired and crumpled.  

Her hand stops me as I'm about to leave.

"Have a good Christmas and thanks for the juice."

I nod and shrug.

"It's a time for giving."

But not one for forgiving. Not now.

I stop the sinking feeling I have in my stomach, forcing an ounce more cheer. But it's tough, that constant uphill battle to change, to shed the familiar skin of being an out of control little shit. It's hard but a stint in prison helps adjust a person's outlook. And by that I don't mean the system. I mean the time to think. The system don't mean shit. It never has and it never will. A system delivered by people who don't care can't save you.

"Yes it is, honey. Happy holidays."

A couple of years ago I would've kept my juice. A couple of years ago I wouldn't have come back here. A couple of years ago I wouldn't have meant this…

"You, too."

But time alters everything.

I walk to… I turn, looking at my surroundings, wondering where I'm going. Then I understand. Like a serial killer I'm going to the Bank of Vamp. I'm going to the cemetery.