Sad, Beautiful, and Tragic - A Taylor Swift FanFiction

Chapter 2

The next time my eyes open, I notice that the bus is still lagging on. Though, morning sunlight seeps through the window and skims my face. It cloaks every seat and every wall, every piece of luggage and every ceiling handle. Also, it envelopes unfamiliar faces. Beards and irregular noses. I’m no longer alone. The bus stayed in service, over night? Doesn’t that grumpy driver need a break? Or was she replaced by Bashful, Sleepy, or Dopey while I was asleep? Perhaps neither. 

Wheels squeak and rusty axels grinds against other bus parts, most of which are probably not up to code. They crescendo and increase in volume, the racket resembling knives in my ears. It all occurs so quickly that I jump a bit in my seat, my hands flying to shield my ears. I listen at the muffled sound for a moment, waiting until I can barely hear it let my hands drop. 

I stand a bit in my seat, not nearly enough for my knees to lock. I can just see over a plump lady’s head and through the window closest to the street. We’ve stopped for the first time since I’ve been awake to see it; The bus has come to a halt at a stop by another small restaurant. I can see the name from afar very well, but I can see logos of food. 

I don’t know where in Nashville we are, or how long I’ve been passed out. In fact, I’m not sure of anything at all, excluding one thing. I’m somewhere far enough away for my father not to find me with ease. Wasn’t that my goal all along?

I drop my luggage to the aisle and disclose the handle. Standing before it, I assure my fingers are taut around the black grip. Doing so, my feet start to carry me toward the head of the bus. 

I’m not sure what I’ll do, where I’ll go. It’s all a vague mystery from here on. It’s a terrifying fear of if I’ll die a homeless teenager, or if somebody will find me and turn me in to social services, maybe find me a home. Or, God forbid, somebody were to kill me the second I step foot off this filthy bus.

There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?

I descent down the bus stairs, stepping onto the sidewalk. Turning last minute, I see that the driver is in fact the same lady as before. Did I sleep over night on the bus alone while it was parked, and she went to sleep somewhere else? I wouldn’t be very surprised. She isn’t paid enough to think twice about these situations. 

If it were illegal, she wouldn’t give.

The bus wheezes away, coughing as the wheels pull it down the street. Smoke puffs from the exhaust pipe, making me wonder when it underwent it’s last inspection. But then I snap back into reality, realizing that I’m now on my own with nowhere to go and no money to do anything with. What now?

Well, standing at the curb won’t do me any good.

My feet carry me down streets, up and down blocks, past pharmacies and restaurants, until they feel like breaking. At one point or another, I reach what I would assume is the heart of Nashville. Whatever it is, I decide that I should rest for a bit. Have some water, give my feet a break. I look at my cheap watch again as I walk, and it tells me that it’s ten forty eight. Great, I either slept or walked through breakfast. But who am I kidding, I wouldn’t be able to eat even if I wanted to. Going up to the counter and saying, “Hello. I’m fourteen, and I ran away from my abusive father, and I’m broke. Give me food?” wouldn’t exactly fly over well with the cashier. I’d either be taken in for questioning, or rejected to the face. Neither is quite my forte... 

I find a spot outside of a corner restaurant, the sign reading ‘Bricks Café’, a small bench that I can have all to myself. I walk over to it and lift my luggage up next to me, sitting down and getting myself as comfortable as I can on the wooden seat. Settled in, I start to naturally people watch.