THE WAIT FOR THE BUS

The young woman sat on the metal bench within the bus shelter. She fastened the zipper on her jacket a little higher. The cold wind playing with the rubbish on the floor penetrating her denim clad legs and blowing her short brown hair into her eyes.

The bright headlights of cars speeding past left patterns on her retinas. The street lamps glowed yellow but did not warm the vision of the cold, hard street. The occasional flurry of snow blew into the shelter to wet the woman’s cheeks which were already damp from the hot tears which made their way unchecked from her cobalt eyes.

A bus approached. An illuminated refuge offering warmth, human company and transport. She didn’t rise. She didn’t lift her hand to call the bus to stop. She watched it continue upon its noisy journey until she was once again left with the silence.

She took her small hand from the relative warmth of a jacket pocket to push the hair from her eyes. In the glow from the nearby street light the blood pumping from her wrist was black, her fingers sticky from being in the pool of blood which had collected on both pockets left its mark, a shouted sign to any who cared to look.

The turmoil which had been her constant companion for so long was gone, replaced by an unnatural calm. She felt anesthetized. The emotional pain was gone. Her decision now made she felt a peace never known to her before.

She replaced her hand in her pocket and smiled as the glow from the street lamps faded. How pretty the snow was. Falling and settling to make the world New and unspoiled.


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