Little Worlds

Skeleton Bus

The skeletal bus chuntered onto the motorway, the tarmac splattered with the promising light of dawn. My temple knocked gently upon the grimy window as I surrendered myself to the sleep clawing at my eyes. The rhythmic bashing was like a metronome to my noisy thoughts.

Although the old man opposite me's breath stank of stagnant rotting coffee, and upon his left corduroy lapel there was a crusty orange baked bean stain, I rather liked him. The monotonous droning coming from the undergrowth of his wiry beard served as quite the percussion to my conscience. Yet, the gentle bundle of wildflowers upon my lap cringed whenever the old man disturbed the air with his dirty lungs.

My brain wasn't listening, but my ears seemed to be, and so I could probably recite to you each and every one of the brave escapades of the old man's legendary fishing boat. Your fish and chip dinner could be of any old fish you know, cod, haddock, pollock, they don't check, you know. I knew.

A sweet stream of sunlight dripped onto the smiling sweet-peas and balmy roses I was clutching. I stared passed the old man's stale head and across to the earthy pine forest lining the fragile horizon. The rippling leaves were like the spread palms of paper hands, the timid morning sun dappling through them.

I was becoming a bit too entranced by the surrounding foliage it seems, as the old man began to cough up a lung to hook back my attention. The balmy liquid scent of the patient flowers in my hands thankfully masked the phlegm coating the inside of the old man's cavernous mouth.

He asked me gruffly where I was headed, which seemed odd to me as it was broad-casted quite sickeningly loudly throughout the skeleton bus in every peaceful silence. I replied politely. He replied predicatively. Nasty places hospitals, you know. I knew.

A red ping overhead removed me from mentally wandering the hospital corridors. He'll be okay you know. Fix him up just fine, you know. I told the old man my brother had broken his leg, just this weekend.

I lied.

I stumbled off of the bus, cradling the bouquet of sympathy to my heavy chest, feeling like I'd just received a pep talk for a team that had already lost. The roses sighed and I reluctantly tore down the paper forest behind me and instead built the ghastly brick hospital. The skeleton bus bounded away, the old man still sat merrily on it. I wondered if he was there just for the ride. My legs stumbled in the direction of the brick terror, the pace of my walk seeming sad and cacophonic with its absent metronome.

In the dire waiting room, a cauliflower-haired lady took my clammy hand and patted it. Forgive me for being cynical, but Cauliflower Lady was just not a very nice person, so I felt it necessary to call her a mean nickname. She smelt intoxicatingly floral, like she was shoving moldy rose petals through every orifice in my face.

Cauliflower Lady smiled placidly at me, opal eyes drifting around the hospital corridor as if it were a white-sanded beach. Pat-pat pat-pat. I didn't know if it would be rude to steal back my itchy hand.

I missed my paper trees and my skeleton bus.

What's a young man like you doing in a place like this?

Well Cauliflower Lady, I am here just for the larks.

She didn't hesitate to tell me that she was visiting her dying mother, who she didn't like all that much. I didn't like Cauliflower Lady all that much either, but I didn't fancy a blow from a potpourri fist particularly. She eventually pootled off in the direction of her unlucky mother, who I couldn't help but picture with a similar wasting cauliflower for a hairdo. I was left alone with my hyperventilating flowers.

I told Cauliflower Lady I was bringing a card to my best friend's ill mother.

I lied.

I wondered if the dainty sun had finally risen yet, if it had burnt the pine trees and evaporated the dawn. There was no way of knowing the sun's fate in this dismal place, every window seemed to be clothed with a cloak of grey misery and imminent death. I let my mind picture the little skeleton bus, prancing away from the the bulging midday sun, the trees brown scorched edges flapping in the breeze and another passenger trapped in the old man's fishing net of tales.

A blue nurse called my reluctant name and I was shoved back into my uncomfortable wooden cage, also known as cheap waiting room chair. Her polite smile and her glassy eyes seemed somewhat emotionally disjointed. Then again, my emotions weren't just disjointed, they were on the floor all crushed up and trodden on.

The squeaky green lino underfoot made me incessantly queasy, as if my lungs were filling up with sawdust. The tired bunch of posies in my hand now looked sour and ill. The pink of the sweet-peas, no longer vibrant and dazzling, were now the depressing shade of a dusty faded curtain.

My depressed feet finally planted me in a sad white room, where wires crawled down the walls and created a web of chemicals. All I could wonder was, where was the evil spider now?

But amongst the mechanical jungle, I saw her, bandages cradling her fragile skull like white petals around a tiny bud. I longed for the slippery pink of the roses to burst into paint, so with my quiet fingertips I could stain her translucent skin with a blush and a warmth.

Yet the flowers were recklessly plonked beside her bed and the shrilling beeps and choking wires shrouded her further and further. I wanted to pick up my useless plants and throw them at her chest, hoping some colour and life would bleed onto her skin.

I'm telling you now, that my whole world is dying.