Jungle Of Grit

The Body - 1

A series of loud wails came from the inside of the bus. A few minutes ago the boy’s eyes had closed and the window had subsequently fogged up; the man quickly lost interest in the boy. Cold air bit at the man’s hands and face and he winced as an abrupt crackle of agony shot across his forehead, he reached up to find the source of the pain and was met with a soft, wet sensation. He brought his hand back down and stared at it; at some point as he was bringing his hand down he had forgotten the reason he wanted to see it. He remained in a state of confusion for a considerable period, unable to properly focus on his hand.

His mind snapped back into gear all at once and he noticed the large red stain which tinted the whole palm and finger tips of the hand. A shout came from inside the bus, the wailing stopped and muffled voices followed, barely audible from outside the bus. Vision into or out of the bus was impossible; the only way to tell what was on the other side of the window was through listening. The man made no sound as he moved. He lifted his foot, kept it in the air for a moment, almost losing his balance and falling over backwards. Dropping his foot back down onto the hard road he realised he had no shoes on, despite this the cold road didn’t affect him and he simply raised his other foot to repeat the process. At first the process was slow, little more than a step every minute, but the more he practised the easier it became until finally he was walking at a quick, albeit clumsy, pace.

All of a sudden he realised why he was moving; he realised where he was going and why he wanted to get there. He realised now something that was hardwired into his mind: If there were voices, then there were people and if there were people inside the bus, that’s where he had to be.