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Immigrant

During the day he drives the bus, ridiculed by children and adults alike. He follows the same old route, nothing that changes.
He finally stops the bus at twelve, to find lunch packed by his wife. The good times with his wife used to be rich and plentiful. Now scarce, few. He fights to find something to make them more, as he has for many a year.

He returns to his house; you can’t call it a home. It’s bare, dull, dim, there is no life. His wife is at a table, caressing a dark coloured bottle, not to his delight. He wishes he could help her, but neither can read or write this language newly introduced.
She is drunk, her hands loose. The bottle smashes onto the ground, black glass everywhere, all over the floor.
She stands to yell, off the chair, but crumbles to the floor; daggers glistening with red, stabbing at her feet.
He doesn’t know what to do, help or laugh at her drunkness. He laughs revengefully, for her making his life painful, slow, the opposite of bliss. Little does he know, to laugh at a fool is to be one himself.

He relised, after his laughter, how stupid he was, laughing at ones misery and pain. So he gave up for the night and headed to bed, leaving the messy sprawl on the couch.
Both stayed silently, too silent to be good, until an alarm broke the silence and his slumber. Shuffling footsteps soud through the house, as he prepares for his dead end job. As he works through his morning regime: coffee, breakfast and a shower; his wife slept soundlessly, a knot on the couch. The heavy wooden door slammed shut, as he left and hoped to wake her. He failed, for she was seemingly, acting as a log.

He pushed his car through the traffic, to get to the bus depo. Tempers flare, through the peak hour, all trying to come first in the rat race. His final arrival at work brings quite a scene, as his boss yells in rage: 10 minutes late is a 10 minute late bus. Walking to the bus he curses, mainly at his wife, for making him late.
The empty bus, except for the driver, moves away from the depo. People laugh in the bus, but not at him, and he feels they should be quiet, and feeling sorry instead.
The route has been done a few times over, as the bus draws to a halt.
He staggers to the lunch room, his ligs numb and asleep. Lifting his green lunchbox to the table, he opens it with disappointment, then anger. His wife, now awake, was unable to pack a lunchbox in her sleep. Raised high, above his head stays the the lunchbox, until it comes down, to smash against the linoleum floor. The boss comes in, still angry from before. Your fired, is what came from his mouth. The bus driver’s feet tap against the linoleum floor, as he stalks out the door.

His drive is fast, it’s only 12:30, too late and early for peak hour.
The car slows as it nears the driveway, but a change of mind appears, as the car rushes off.
He drives and drives, then drives a little more; until he saw what he seeked.
He walks through the automatic doors, with an air of purpose. Only minutes later, he walks out, with bottles in hand, to find what his wife found, as he sat in his car.
His sight now blurred, he grabbed at his keys, to attempt to start the car. The engine live, he sets off on his perilous journey home.

He arrived at home to find his wife slumped over the bench. His anger returned, bellowing everything bad, blaming it all on her. She remained still, even as he stumbled over, to find her front wet.
But not from grog in a bottle, but black glass in her neck.

Immigrant

RosePhotography

Melbourne, Australia

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  • Damian
  • Peter Davidson
  • Peter Davidson
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