Ruby Red Marionette

fortyone | agraphobia

The bus ride up to Nashville was very quiet and very painful.

I had to wait in front of the mall for the bus. It took quite a long time to come, which left time for me to go in the mall. I could have, but I didn't. I had barely any money left after paying for my ticket. I could've went in a few stores and just took some things, but I always thought that petty shoplifting was juvenile and dumb. It was much more entertaining to trick people into buying things for you. But I had no energy for that, either. Even keeping my eyes open while I sat on the bus stop was a task. At some times, it was impossible. My eyelids would just keep weighing down and down until I just had to let my them close. It was always something like a car horn or a baby screaming that would jolt me back into consciousness. Every single time, I always hoped that when I woke up again I would feel better. It never happened.

There was a hole inside of me, and it was sinking. Actively. Every second.

The bus arrived, and for a moment I didn't get up. The people already on board were getting off with their bags and luggage looking not even remotely excited to be in this city. Most people who took buses like this had already been to the place they were going to and leaving from. I waited for them, sitting slouched like a teenage boy on the bus stop seat. They were finally all off, and the driver began to call for us to get on.

I picked up my bag and felt the heavy weight of Yvette's book. The thoughts in my mind were so thick, so dense, that I didn't even get a chance to consider it yet. Now that I actually let it cross my mind, a puddle on the sidewalk stood out to me. I could take the book out of my bag and throw it in the puddle without anyone noticing; they were all focusing on getting on the bus, so they wouldn't see a thing. Did I want to, though? Did I want to get rid of it or did I want to read its contents?

"Do you want to get on?"

I thought this to be my own voice talking to me, but I looked up and saw the driver. He was standing in the doorway waiting for the last person to get on: me.

"Yes," I said. I put the bag over my shoulder and boarded the bus.

The girl who sat next to me was going to Nashville for a pastry convention. She had a lot of spare pastries in her bag and wanted someone to taste them for her. She had a very bold enthusiasm and very red hair. Even though every word I said was spoken through gritted teeth and my throat hurt every time I breathed, she didn't seem to mind my low, almost inaudible style of speaking. She handed me pastry after pastry, asking me how I liked them and for advice on how to make them better. (I never gave her advice. I only said 'good' or 'it's fine'. One to two word answers were all I could handle.)

No matter how many of her pastries I ate, it never worked. None of them ever filled the gaping hole inside of me. I couldn't figure out if it was in my stomach or my heart, but it was somewhere, and every time I had a thought about my life it got wider. It even happened when I thought about other people's lives, because I couldn't look at the stranger sitting two seats ahead of me without comparing her life to mine and wondering about how easy she must have everything.

People always said that everybody has problems, but it never seemed like it. It always seemed like when things were wrong in my life, I was the only one.

Stacy, the girl with the pastries, gave me a box of cookies when I told her who I was going to see. She told me that I could give my grandmother cookies for once instead of the other way around. I didn't know what flavor they were but all they reminded me of was Devin, so I asked for something else. She gave me instead a whole lemon meringue pie.

"Don't sweat it. I make those like it's breathing." She said. I took the pie and put it in my bag, careful not to open the bag too much so she saw the book. Then I closed the bag, sat back, and prepared to close my eyes.