Faultless

1/1:: Faultless

:Based loosely on the lyrics to Ho Hey! By the Lumineers
________________________________________________________________

I awake on the low futon of the dimly lit room and my muscles ache in protest as I lift myself from the springs and make my way to the bathroom.

I brush my teeth and splash my face with cold water from the tap. I give myself a half-bath in the sink with a worn washcloth and a waxy bar of soap. I wash my neck, chest, legs, arms. It is then that my attention is drawn to the unsightly spectacles that are the ringlet scars which pepper my arms; the sights of injection.

I dress quickly and slip out of the motel room. I walk a few blocks until I reach the bus station. I wait. When the bus finally arrives, I step on, pulling the hood of my faded grey sweatshirt over my mop-like hair. I work my way past  the many bodies, towards the back of the overcrowded vehicle.

I sit, motionless, watching as life happens all around me. A mother unwraps a sweet as appeasement for her screaming child. An older African-American woman sits with her eyes closed, humming to herself. Her voice is smooth and easy to listen to. A teenaged guy sits opposite me, his eyes closed, his hoodie pulled low, his music blasting. The lyrics slip from his headphones, into the open atmosphere.

For some reason this brings a smile to my face.

Every five minutes someone tugs on the yellow chord which runs around the uper perimeter of the bus, signaling the driver to veer  into the right-hand lane and pull over to let them off.
As we approach my stop, my nerves begin to misbehave, going haywire as a live wire does if exposed to liquid. I am hesitant to pull the wire at first. But I eventually stand, reaching upward, yanking the yellow chord downward.

Within a few seconds, the bus has pulled to the curb. It screeches to a halt. The driver pulls a lever near his side, the doors open with a sound that aggressively resembles the expulsion of a great puff of steam from an iron.

I step off. And before I can turn around, the bus has taken off, leaving me alone on the empty sidewalk.

The wind is ruthless, openly attacking my hands, face in neck. I pull on the drawings of my sweatshirt and burry my hands in my pocket as I shudder against the bitter cold.

As I walk on, I can't help but replay the year before my sentence and how it all ended. But things are gonna change, things are different now, I'm different now. And I'm gonna make sure that she knows it.

I am so deep in thought that I cross the street without looking. A long horn sounds as a car screeches to a stop. I jump and look up at the driver who is beyond lividity, likely swearing profanities at me. "I'm sorry, sorry."  I hold up a hand in defence. I step onto the sidewalk.

Slosh.

I have stepped in a puddle and now the water is sleeping through the soles of my shoes. The cold envelops my feet and shoots up my entire body, chilling me to the bone. But luckily I have arrived.

With numb fingers, I push open the glass door and a little bell sounds over my head. There is a woman at the form desk who paused her phone conversation upon noticing me. "Excuse me, can I help you?," she says with a plastic smile. "Um-" a shiver replaces my words and the woman misjudges my purpose for coming here.

Sir, the soup kitchen is just down the street... "

"No," I laugh. I should be offended but I am not. I guess when you are truly grateful, the minor insults and trespasses seem as trivial as water of your back. "I'm here to speak with Nancy Argon." The woman simply blinks at me. "I...have an appointment."  She raises her brow at me and, never taking her eye off me, checks through her computer.