The Final Destination

She shifted in her seat, again, her eyes darting nervously around the room, scanning the faces of other passengers, surveying the cracks and water stains in the foam tile ceiling, watching bus after bus come and go from the slight peek into the garage from behind the ticket counter, to the right of the departure board, to the left of another windowless wall.

She stared at the board trying to make sense of it.

“Excuse me,” she started towards the counter, where a yellow-skinned, scruffy-faced man in a conductor-style hat sat, slumped with his chin in his hands, gazing out into nothingness, “can you tell me when I leave? … Or where I’m going? …Or…”

She stopped mid sentence and slid him her ticket. He took it, reaching out for it without looking, his face still resting in one hand.

“Right now,” he answered dully, lifting a set of bagged red eyes to her.

She snatched up her ticket and backed away from the counter, slowly, still peering in the face of the man in the conductor hat.

“But I’m not ready,” she said, “I’m not ready.”

In her swift backward motion, she bumped into a young man. He wore torn jeans and a leather jacket and protested “Woah, woah, woah lady,” as she trampled his booted feet but changed his tone upon witnessing the look of horror plastered on her pleasant face.

“You alright, lady?” He asked.

“Sorry,” she straightened her floral print dress with her palms, eyes focused on her Mary Jane’s as she tried to compose herself, “I’m fine, I’m just… not ready to go.”

“What time do you leave?”

“Now,” she answered glumly.

“Aw, lucky…”

“Lucky?!”

“Better than being stuck here…”

“Are you…”

“Stuck here? Yeah, I don’t got no ticket, they never gave me one, told me they didn’t know where to send me…”

“Oh,” her face sunk, switching from dismay to pity, “well, that’s awful…”

“Don’t know how long it’s been either, they don’t got no clocks or calendars, and old yellow face over there,” he pointed back to the ticket counter with this thumb, “he doesn’t know shit.”

“How terrible” she sympathized again, lifting her eyes from their feet, up his jeans, till she made a ghastly discovery, “Oh! You’re bleeding!” She announced in a panicked fashion upon finding his blood-soaked T-shirt.

The young man brought his hand to left side where the wound was, “yeah, I got into a fight, that’s why they’re sending me off, I guess…”

“Don’t you need a doctor?” She was horrified.

“Oh, I was at the hospital, surgery, the whole nine, then they sent me off.”

“And you’re gonna be okay?”

The young man laughed, “yeah, sure… let me see your ticket.”

She handed her ticket over. The young man inspected it, nodding along as he read.

“Yep, now,” he confirmed before changing the subject, “What brings you here anyway?”

“I’m not really sure...” she furrowed her brow in contemplation, “last thing I remember, I was driving, and a little squirrel darted out in front of me. I know I swerved, I hit a police car. It was an accident, really, but I still ended up here.”

“Wow, lady,” the young man scratched the back of his neck, “you’re a real hero, a real great lady, I wish you the best, ok? Good luck.”

“Good luck to you,” she called back to him as he swiftly jaunted off.

She took a seat on the frayed faux leather padded row of metal chairs again, watching the busses come and go for a minute. She took a deep breath.

Finally, she stood up and walked back toward the ticket counter, “I believe I leave now,” she told the dazed ticket attendant, digging in her purse, “that’s what my ticket says anyways, I suppose..”

She opened each compartment one by one one, unzipping ad rezipping, patting her pocketless dress, turning back to where she’d been sat until she noticed something peculiar. Her ticket seemed to have disappeared, and the ticketless young man was stood at the end of the boarding line, waiting, bag slung over his shoulder, big grin on his boyish face. She watched as he reached the front and held out a ticket to be checked and stamped.

She was happy for him, that he’d finally gotten a ticket.

“Last call!” An equally downtrodden man in the same conductor style hat announced from the other side of the station.

“But my ticket…” she whispered to herself, looking on hopelessly as the door to the garage closed with a whoosh of compressed air.

She watched as the young man tossed his bag in the undercarriage and climbed on board. She watched all the passengers settle, and the bus take off. As the wheels began to spin, she watched in terrible awe as the garage floor tore open to reveal a fireish hellscape below ground as it’s destination.

“Your ticket, miss?” The uninterested man at the ticket counter asked.

“I.. can’t seem to find it, and well, maybe that’s a good thing…”

The tattered man then seemingly produced a new ticket out of thin air.

“There was an intentional mix up, that must’ve been his ticket, you’re actually headed north.”

“When do I leave?”

“Now.”

And from the other end of the platform again came am announcement, “Last call!”

She made her way to the garage doors, ticket in hand, a sense of peace in her heart.