Why Me?

Gazing out the window of a large transport bus, I try my best to relax. My home town, which never really felt like a home at all, is waiting for me. The long highway ahead of me is all that I can see right now.

"Would you pipe down about the damned armrest, woman!?" exclaims an elderly man at his wife.

I, along with the majority of people around me, curiously gaze over at the infuriated senior citizen. The old man angrily glares at his spouse, who scowls right back.

“Way to make a scene, Marty!” she shouts.

Marty’s wrinkled, saggy face sways back and forth as he furiously shakes his head.

“BANANA SHIT!” he belts out at the top of his lungs.

Everyone in the bus immediately stares at the boisterous couple. I even notice the bus driver checking out the action through his rear-view mirror.

“How’s that for a fuckin’ scene!?” blurts out the old man, stomping on the gray carpet floor with his brown loafers.

His thin-framed glasses are nearly launched off of his droopy face in rage. His wife, who wears wrinkled, white pants and a faded, pink T-shirt, crosses her flabby arms and turns to the window next to her. After waiting a moment to see if the conflict would progress, everyone goes back to minding their own business. I have no phone, no one in the seat next to me, and no source of passing the time. All I can do is think.

“Next stop...Fort Lauderdale. I repeat, next stop...Fort Lauderdale.” announces the stocky bus driver.

I lock eyes with the driver through the rear-view mirror. He quickly looks away. A beam of sunlight shines on his curly, red hair as the entrance door on his right swings open. I wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans and anxiously await to see who enters. I'm glad that I’m all the way in the back of the bus. I feel that it gives me a better chance of avoiding anyone sitting next to me. I grab my backpack off of the adjacent seat and safely place it between myself and the wall.

A mother, about thirty years of age, and her two daughters enter the bus. I assume they’re heading to a funeral, as they’re all wearing black dresses. I wonder to myself who they might've lost. Both of the daughters have pale white skin, vividly contrasting the darkness of their attire. The youngest seems to be around 15 years old. She has a heartbroken frown on her face and moves with her shoulders slouched. The older girl seems to be in her early-twenties and has brown hair, just like her mother and sister. Directly behind them, two police officers search for a spot to sit down. They’re both well over six feet tall and have on black pants with black shirts. I recognize them, but I doubt they ever even noticed me.

The three women and the cops in black are the only passengers to join the bus before we start moving again. I watch the two cops take a seat about five rows ahead of me. The three women sit down in the two front rows behind the driver. About a third of the sixy seats are now taken. Mostly silence fills the bus, but I’m able to listen in on a few conversations.

“When are we going to be there?” A pudgy, little boy in the seat in front of me asks his father.

“Soon.” He answers without looking up from his phone.

His son looks up at his father's disinterested face for a moment, and then begins to play a game on his phone. They don't seem to have much of a connection, but it could be worse. I wish I had never met my father.

Gazing over at the two burly police officers, I notice them observing a crude sketch of a man. He’s white, bald and has a scruffy beard. I think I know who they’re searching for, but that drawing could be of anyone. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and wait for time to pass by.

“Next stop, Sunrise. I repeat...next stop, Sunrise.” announces the bus driver.

Sunrise…just a few more stops before I get back to my mother's house. I have a lot of terrible memories from my time spent there. My father never wanted me. He was always telling my mother that their life was great until they had me. He constantly tried to send me away, but my mother would never let that happen. She loved me too much.

When I was about five years old, my father came home after a long night of drinking...a lot of drinking. There was an intense thunder storm that night. I was sitting on the living room couch with my mother and thinking that she looked scared. That was the first time I had ever seen her that way. I remember tightly holding my bag that I always carried my two favorite toys in. I had found the toys in my mother's bedroom closet when I was four years old. She must've been hiding them to give to me on Christmas, but I wanted them as soon as I saw them. I named the toys Mary and Catherine. They were named after my mother, Mary-Catherine. I took them everywhere with me. I would hold them in my hands anytime that I felt afraid, and I still do to this day. Mary and Catherine made me feel safe by taking me to a happy place in my mind where it was just me and my mother. But I digress.

I could hear the sound of the rain pouring down onto the porch as my abusive father swung open the door.

“Mary-Catherine! We're leaving now! You need to accept the truth!” he screamed.

With tears rolling down her face, my mother said to me, “Grayson...it's okay. Just go to your room and everything will be fine. I love you."

I knew that something was wrong, but I didn't know how to react. That night, I watched my own father shoot my mother with his pistols over and over until she was unrecognizable. Desperate cries from my mother resonated throughout the house along with the blasts of the guns. All I could do was helplessly listen to the tragic shooting. The deafening noise continued until my mother finally took her last breath. I stared down in terror at my mother's lifeless body. When I looked up, my father had already sped off in his broken-down truck. I never saw him again…until today.

The bus comes to a complete stop. Seeing the doors swing open once again, I slouch down in my seat to avoid being noticed. The driver glares at me though the rear-view mirror. I think he’s becoming skeptical of me. I peak around the chair in front of me. A young, happy couple boards the bus.

“Good afternoon!” says the man to the driver.

He has a short buzz-cut, dark skin and a bright, white smile. His wife has long, blonde hair that shimmers all the way down to the middle of her back. She has a wide, joyful smile, just like her husband. She cradles an infant boy gently in her arms.

“Hello.” Responds the bus driver with an unenthusiastic grin and a wave.

The happy family takes their seats right in front of the elderly couple. Then, someone else enters the bus. I can only see the top of the man’s shiny, bald head. The driver looks up at him suspiciously. He takes a few steps down the aisle and a cold chill shoots down my spine. How did he find me!? I could’ve sworn that I lost him at the museum! My heart rapidly pounds inside of my chest as I try to hide myself behind the seats. Cold sweat drips down from my forehead onto the gray carpet floor. I hear the entrance dor close and the bus begins to move again.

“Grayson! Are you in here?” My father anxiously asks.

His scruffy beard covers his face, which is bright red and covered in sweat. He’s doing his best to conceal his rage, but I can see it deep in his bloodshot, blue eyes. As he passes by the woman and two girls in black, my body goes limp with fear.

He looks down at his phone, looks back up and says, “C’mon son…I know you’re in here.”

Quickly shuffling through my bag, I find my cellphone and turn it off. He tracked me...and now he's going to kill me. My father slowly makes his way down the aisle in his black jacket and ivory slacks. He intently searches for me like a predator who's stalking his prey.

“Take a seat son! Doesn’t anyone respect the rules anymore?” shouts the old man, Marty.

He points my father in the direction of a yellow sign that reads, All Passengers Must be Seated While Vehicle is Moving.

My father grimaces at the old man’s shaky finger. He stares at Marty as if he’s on the verge of an outburst. Marty stares back at him with an angry frown on his face. Right when my father opens his mouth to speak, he catches sight of the two police officers and holds back his words.

He wipes sweat from his forehead and looks down at the floor. “I apologize.” he mutters to Marty.

He clumsily turns in a circle to find a seat, then plops down behind the women in black. I'll have to sneak by him at the next stop before he sees me.

The man in front of me answers his ringing phone with “Hello?”

He continues, “We’re about 20 minutes away….the bus….”

After a brief pause, he lowers his voice. His tone becomes irritable.

“Nicole, you know I had to sell my car last week...You always have to bring this up...Oh, please...You blow away every cent I give you on clothes for yourself...Just-...Listen, I...Okay, you know what, I’m not doing this right now. We’ll talk when I get there…Goodbye.”

Realizing his father’s apparent anger, the little boy beside him asks, “Is everything okay, Dad?”

He quickly shoves his phone into his jeans pocket and snaps, “Everything’s fine, Michael! Just play your games until we get there!"

The boy looks at his father with sadness in his eyes and then turns to gaze out of the window.

“Next stop, Plantation. I repeat…next stop, Plantation.” announces the driver.

Holding my bag that holds Mary and Catherine snugly under my arm, I prepare to make my getaway. The bus gradually slows down and then comes to a complete stop. My stomach flutters intensely. I take a deep breath and poke my head out from behind the seats to make sure that my father isn’t looking. He's already coming my way. My heartbeat fires off like a machine gun. I leap back to the seat against the wall and await the worst.

“Excuse me, sir!” I hear belted out from the middle of the bus.

I’m too afraid to see who called out.

My father calmly replies, “Is there a problem, Officer?”

Watching through the space between the seats in front of me, I can see that one of the cops has his hand planted on my father’s chest. Both of the officers suddenly leap to their feet.

“Where were you today between the hours of 12:30 P.M and 3:00 P.M?” questions the officer farther from the aisle.

“I was out trying to find my son. I think he's on this bus and I really need to find him. He's not well.”

He's such a skilled liar. He's the one who isn't well. I'm a better man than he ever was and I'm only ten years old. I might be young, but I’ve already grown up so much. I grew up without my father and I don't need him. I just want to know what goes on in his head to make him act this way.

"Sir, we received a report about a man who was shot at the Museum on Broward Boulevard earlier today. Would you happen to know anything about that" asks the cop.

"That was my son! He was trying to kill me!" my father belts out.

The officer replies, "Stay calm, sir. We-."

His sentence is cut short by an outburst of frightened screams and gasps.

My father pulls out a black hand gun and shouts, “You stay calm! I don’t want to hurt anyone! I just need to find my son!”

The passengers raise their hands and cautiously sit back in their seats. My father slowly backpedals to the front of the bus. He stops right beside the driver. My father's chest heaves with every deep, nervous breath that he takes.

"Sir, put the gun down." one of the cops calmly commands.

"You don't understand...I'm trying to protect all of you! My son is not stable and he can be very dangerous! He's on this bus and, if we don't find him, it will be bad for everyone." my father fearfully exclaims.

If only these people knew the monster that is my father, they'd understand the real danger. Trying my best to be brave, I reach my hands into my bag and hold onto Mary and Catherine.

The cop states, "Okay...Just stay calm. We'll help you find your son."

The other cop adds, "Does he have a weapon? Why is he dangerous?"

"He might have a weapon...I don't know. He has this dark, violent side...like he's two different people." my father stammers. He begins to sob and says, "There's always been something very wrong with him. He butchered my wife. He killed my dogs, my mother, my father, the man at the museum and who knows how many more! He's been trying to kill me for-."

My father freezes up and his eyes widen with shock. He sees me now. Out of my bag, I pull out Mary and Catherine. I squeeze Mary and blast him right in the heart. The rest of the passengers break out in a panic. One by one, I gun them all down. The smell of blood fills my nose as the inside of the bus is painted red. No one survives, only me.

I sit motionless in the back of the bus, traumatized from watching my father massacre an entire bus full of innocent people. I can't help to stare at his emotionless, dead eyes. His body is sprawled out in a pool of his own blood. I can't get the image of murdering all of those people and then shooting himself in his own heart...an image that will be burned into my mind forever. The people who I had watched smile, cry, and yell just moments ago now surround me in silence as corpses. I remain on the bus for hours, asking myself over and over again, "Why me?"