Haven (On Hold)

One Way Ticket

Bus Station: San Jose, CA

A/N: Trigger warning! Protagonist/Reader is a survivor of sexual assault. Read with caution.

The ticket in your hand is trembling. Wait, no. That's your hand. Tremors. You have tremors, now. You didn't tell anyone about them back home. The silence on the other end of the phone call was hard enough when you first broke the news to your mom. "Just promise me you'll be careful," she'd said, defeated when nothing she could say convinced you to stay. "Call me, okay?"

But she didn't understand. None of them did. How could they? They didn't know what hell you've been living because you couldn't bear to tell them... You could hardly admit it to yourself. It doesn't matter that it happened almost three months ago, it haunts you every waking minute and he slithers into the shadows of your dreams, bringing back that twist of disgust and shame you can't stop feeling. You know it wasn't you and you shouldn't be ashamed to tell someone what happened to you that night... But you are. You can't help it. He haunts you. The fear of running into him every time you leave your house is crippling. You think you see his face in every pot-bellied, man-boobed and pear-faced man within two hundred miles of Monterey.

You shove the ticket in the pocket of your hoodie.

Shifting your backpack onto your lap, you sit stiffly in the window seat, carefully watching the other passengers get on the bus without looking like you're watching them. Who's going to sit with you? Maybe no one. Maybe you'll get really lucky and this trip isn't sold-out.

At least it's warm on the bus. The wet, bitter air as you crossed from your terminal dug its fingers into your skin. Oh yeah, you've got a hood. You're wearing your favorite, two-sizes-too-big-on-purpose hoodie, so you pull the hood up over your head and it hides most of your face. You want to pull your legs up under the sweatshirt, too, but there isn't enough room for that with your backpack in your lap. And that backpack is nearly bursting at its seams. Don't look at me. Don't look at me. You draw your hands inside your sleeves and wait, focusing on the way the street lights in the parking lot reflect inside the water droplets on the window. If you close one eye and look real close, you can see glowing spiderwebs of light inside. You wish you could step into that world. That world is safer than this one.

The bus dips a little every time someone climbs up the steps. It's worse when someone a bit heavier is boarding. You cringe. Don't look up. What if you see his face? The one you're trying to get away from? Would you be able to recognize him?

But you can't not look. You have to take a quick inventory. You have to know that there will be more than enough seats for everyone so the seat beside you will stay empty. Please stay empty. Please, keep it empty. Please, you say in silent prayer to a God who seems to have turned His back on you.

But the bus is filling up, and there is no end to the boarding passengers, yet. You bite your lip, tense from head to toe. Sitting still is actually painful right now, so your knees start to bounce just the slightest bit. At first you control the bouncing, but one of your knees has a mind of its own and you realize you have no control at all.

Your breath stops in your throat when a short man with shaggy black hair, sloping shoulders, and a wide nose thumps down the center aisle. You can't look away. It's not him. It's not him. You tell yourself this and the logic is there but at the same time the resemblance strikes the fear of God in you and your heart races, leaving a strange feathery sensation in the middle of your chest as your fingernails dig into the palms of your hands. No. No. No, please. NO. You press your fists into your legs to stop the intensifying tremors, but it only sends the tremors up your arms.