The Black Bus
I live in the outskirts of a small town. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, so I only have my imagination to play with. The only way to get to my parents house, is by taking an old dirt road long forgotten due to the installment of an ebony road. Then the only reason any of the townsfolk would dare journey the deserted road is to get to the church directly across from my parents house.
The two story house, my parents and I dwell in, looks inferior next to the gigantic barn located a few yards to the right. The barn was there before the house was even built. I’ve only been in the barn a handful of times, and for good reason too. The barn is ancient; the red color, which once glorified it has faded due to the increase of thunderstorms. A strong surge of wind causes the barn to move from side to side. Then to the left, is a towering, obsolete, and rusted windmill. The metal windmill can be seen long before the barn, or even insignificant house I call a home.
Every hour on the hour the tarnished bell, located on top of the church, rings. The bell sounds gloomy, almost like it’s wailing. The sound of it always made me cover my ears when I was four; Now six, I only cover my ears when the bell rings on Sunday though because the bell sounds like its screaming instead of wailing.
Every Sunday my parents and I go to church; my father always goes in a white button down shirt, black tie, black slacks, and black leather boots. My mother goes in her favorite yellow silk dress with daisy’s printed on it, white silk gloves, and yellow high heals. When we enter the church, it’s usually empty because we’re always first to arrive, the first thing I always see, and will never forget so long as I live is that giant crystal transparent cross hanging over the alter. Their’s two rows of pews and fourteen columns for a total of twenty-eight stretched wooden seats. Each seat is padded with a scarlet cushion. Being seven, I didn’t pay attention to what the priest was saying; like I said I would often doze off in to my imagination.
I remember one Sunday when I was eight, Mother was feeling under the weather so she stayed home when Father and I went to church. That day in church. I was lost in my mind; running my hands over the soft scarlet cushion. Feeling every stitch on my fingertips. The sudden urge to empty my bladder awoke me from my oblivious state. After I finished my business, I wondered outside the church. I sat on a soft patch of grass right across the front door of the old house I call home. Now, normally I wouldn’t dare leave church while mass was still going on. Mother would give me hell about it when we got home afterwards, but mother isn’t here.
I was startled by the scream of the bell followed by the roar of thunder. A cold gust of wind sends a shiver up my spine. I look to the right of the dirt road and see nothing but nothing. I look to the left it seems to go on forever; like you would never reach the end of the old forsaken road. As I kept staring to the left, I saw a storm cloud begin to form. At first I thought nothing of it, but as Mother got sicker the storm cloud got bigger. I asked Father at church if he ever noticed the gray clouds to the left of the horizon. Father just raised his index finger singling me to shush.
Once I reached the age of nine Mother was very ill; she was like an apple with a starving caterpillar inside. Mother was rotting from the inside out; she was so sick that Father didn’t even attend Sunday mass anymore. The second he got home Father was at Mothers side. I would still go to mass, but a few minutes before the bell rang I would walk out to see the storm cloud form and grow a bit more.
It was almost my tenth birthday about three months or so; not that my parents cared mother was asleep days at a time, and father he seemed to become a shell of the man he used to be. His hair was turning a light shade of grey, but so was his skin. While Mother slept Father stayed up night after night. The bags under his eyes aged him to a man twice his age. I stopped going to mass and staying up as well. I would just sit outside every Sunday watching that storm cloud form and grow. Form and grow. Form and grow.
