I sat down on the bench and looked up at the sky.
A cloud moved in front of the sun to provide some shade and cool an otherwise warm day. A couple birds passed overhead, and a light breeze ruffled the leaves of the nearby trees.
I was waiting for the bus to arrive. I had picked this bus route specifically. It promised to arrive at the destination quickly, although it might be a bit of an uncomfortable trip. I did my research thoroughly, and this was the best route I could find. I had been planning this trip for years, perhaps a few too many. The tourist brochures make it sound like a resort, but I know people have a tendency to exaggerate. I had been there before, many years ago. I wish I could remember what it was like. Truth be told, I’m not going on a vacation. I’m going home. This has been a long journey for me. So long, in fact, that I fear going back. I don’t understand why, but I do. This bout of amnesia sure isn’t helping things, either.
I heard squealing, followed by a depressurizing sound. I looked down and noticed the bus in front of me, the doors sliding open. It was then that I realized I had been lost in thought for a while, a few hours at least. The bus driver glanced over at me as I stood up.
“Are you ready?”
As I opened my mouth to reply, doubt suddenly filled my mind. Was it time to go yet? Did I do everything I set out to do? I really wish I could remember why I came here in the first place. Maybe I didn’t ever have a reason. Home may not be that great of a place anyway, but it’s probably better than here.
It seems strange to have doubts now. My life has been empty for some time, and there are few things left for me to do that are worth doing, at least things that are within my capabilities. Besides, I’m already packed up.
The driver smiled as if lightly amused.
“Sorry, last minute thoughts,” I told him.
“That’s OK. It happens all the time.”
I walked up to the bus and put my hands on the door, leaning as if to get on board.
This is it. If I get on, I won’t be coming back. Not for a while. I think. Well, at the very least, all the things I left behind won’t be returned to me when I visit again. Not that it matters. And it’s not like I can stay here forever, either.
What the hell is stopping me?
My hand slid down the door a bit, and I looked down slightly, as if defeated. The bus driver noticed.
“There’s always tomorrow!”
I looked up at him. He still had the same expression, only his smile had widened. I wasn’t quite sure what to say.
“Hey, if you go today, tomorrow, or 20 years from now, it doesn’t matter. The choice is yours to make,” he said.
I knew that already, of course. The question is really, “why stay if there’s no point?” Obviously the answer is, “you don’t.” In any case, I need more time to convince myself that I’m ready.
I leaned back out of the bus and took my hand off of it.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I said.
“Of course,” he replied, “have a good day!”
The doors shut, and the bus rolled away. I stood there for a few minutes, watching it vanish into the horizon. I didn’t look to see if there were passengers on the bus. However, if I stepped far enough inside to do so, I might not have had the option to get back off. That will have to remain a mystery.
I turned around and looked at the bench I was sitting on all day. I walked back towards it.
Is there really anything left here for me?
No.
I already knew the answer to that. Well, looks like I have to wait until tomorrow now.
I sat down on the bench and looked up at the sky.
9 comments
I really liked this.
11/10. – I read this story with a Rose Byrne voice, and the bus driver as Morgan Freeman.
Very compelling and well written, thank you for sharing.
I scaled the 12 foot suicide fence, which runs the length of the canal bridge. I didn’t waste any time once I had managed this athletic feat. I stood up, wavering, teetering, bracing against the chilly April winds coming off the Atlantic. Looking to the moon, which hung in the midnight sky just above the canal, I let out a scream. I’m not a screamer, as a rule, but this yell started in my toes, vibrated up my legs through my groin, gathered momentum in my gut, became unstoppable like a runaway freight train blowing through my heart then exited my open mouth as if the air, moon, canal, and universe were one long resounding scream. Then I was soaring through space not knowing if I was ascending or descending and not caring. Either way was fine, I was free. I don’t even recall leaping from the bridge. It was an inevitable unconscious act I had taken many many tines in my mind over most of my physical existence. The three seconds of flight seemed an eternity. I felt every molecule of air brush my face, forcing air into my mouth and lungs and the wind currents turning me like a fallen leaf. I must have hit the water at 86 mph and my body probably exploded on impact with the black ink of the canal, but I don’t remember. I was gazing at the beautiful shinning moon, feeling the freedom of flight through space and I believe I heard the cry of a seagull in the distance.
Then.
I was sitting on a bus with other people. You would think I would have questioned how I managed to move from flying through space towards the black waters of a canal to suddenly sitting on a bus, but that thought never crossed my mind. I looked around at the others, I expected to see perhaps 20 people seated, but when I looked the bus seemed infinite. There was no end to this bus and no beginning, however, I did happen to be seated next to a window. The bus came to a stop and outside the window was a person seated on a bench. She saw the bus and stood up as if to come on board, but there was hesitation in her every step. The door to the bus opened, she placed her hand on the railing just inside the door and she exchanged words with the driver. I could only see a slight profile of the driver, whose looks were similar to Morgan Freeman. He gave her a half smile. She backed away from the bus for some reason and the doors closed. We were off. Maybe she was waiting for another bus or another day?
Randall: 11/10. – The plot thickens…
It seems we could make this a thing here on SP, running from one person’s story and creating multiple perspectives of the same event. It would be an interesting concept and would be sure to enlighten the OP and provide a form of acknowledgement and further help them with their content.
The bus stop allegory in online suicide discussion goes back more than a decade. It has some points in favor of it, the interminable waiting at the bus stop, for instance. But it has some weaknesses as well. Unlike a real bus, suicide has no destination.
Suicide is a task, it’s meant to accomplish something, if you put anything in the context that you’ve put suicide in then nothing has a destination.
This reminds me of the final scene in the film Ghost World.
There’s beauty in the way you type, DeathFinalFrontier. I don’t know what it is. But I like it. The sense of serenity came through. I find that interesting. And the fact that you did not get onto the bus – that’s something. I don’t know. I just really enjoyed reading this.
I really like this text. I’ll show it to someone who doesn’t know of this metaphor.