Bus Stop
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The snow crumbled under boots of a man. Black, leather, steel toe. Silver bolts in soles glistering when the street light catches just right. Carefully stepping into someone's shoeprints.
Crunch, crunch, thud, thud.
The boots ground against the concrete pavement of a bus stop. For someone with such an “important task” there was no sense of urgency. Lazing around, dragging his feet. Uninterested, bored.
There was not a single soul nearby. He preferred it if he had to be honest. He wasn't exactly, how would Ollie put it, a people person.
Why should he be? Not in this hellhole.
So he sat down, looking at his feet. The boots were old, used, scratched. But they kept him warm. Kept his feet dry. It had been years since he got this pair, hadn't it?
His trousers weren't much better either. Patches and patches. The discoloration from use… the worn look teens nowadays are obsessed with. Buying aged pants, but God forbid they hit a thrift store! Second hand isn't good. They want the look, the look is good, but actually having second hand items? That's poverty!
And hell, who cares? Not like anyone in this cesspool of a city had anything better.
He first tried to hide the holes, putting band patches he'd find on the streets or diy-ing them with whatever was lying around or thrown in dumpsters.
Then he figured that no one gave a shit, so he didn't either. Any scrap of material was sewn on. Patches had one job - to patch. And he’ll be damned if he didn't use them to the maximum.
He had, what, three pairs of trousers? He will take care of them real good then. They weren't allowed to fall apart until he let them.
So what if he lived in poverty? Barely scraping by? So what if he got involved in some shady business? Everyone does what they have to do to survive. He's no different.
He sighed and rubbed his eyes. His eyelashes tickling the cold skin of his fingers through the thin fabric of material gloves. The sleepless nights finally catching up with him. How long was it? Three days? Three days with just a few minutes of sleep between the cold getting to him and not letting him sleep, between walking and running and working. Too long. The fatigue was too much sometimes.
But this job was supposed to be different. Better paid. Finale.
He had a feeling it wasn't all that good, but a drowning man would grab a razor. And he was nothing but a drowning man.
So fuck him for trying to better his life.
His vision blurred so he rubbed his eyes again. He needed a break. But it's fine. Just a little longer.
The tiredness must have been getting worse. He was paranoid. Felt as if someone was watching him. Started to see things for a second or two before he blinked them away. God, he needed sleep. But he could manage. Not the first time it happened.
The street light flickered. Once. Twice. Then went out entirely. The bright light that flashed for a fraction of a second made him close his eyes on instinct. The imprint of brightness playing under his eyelids.
He slowly opened his eyes again and dragged his gaze to the block across the street, vision unfocused, as something twitched in the corner of his eye. He tried to take a discreet look. To see what it was.
He was met with a bright red outline of an eye against unreflective black.
He felt a cold shiver travel down his spine.
He tried to make sense of what he was seeing, but the solid mass covered his entire view, he'd need to take a couple steps back.
The creature's body was too dark to blend into the night, even shadows weren't deep enough to fully cover it. But it could still hide in them, one just needed to know where to look for it to see. If that made any sense.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Still there. Still unmoving.
He took a deep breath. Maybe if he'd just pretend it wasn't there it'd go away. It'd stop looking right through him. He bored into the block in front of him again.
"Hello!"
What? He tried not to react, but that voice. It had a static-like quality. He heard it before, he knows he did!
The radio.
The host of a talkshow always starts with that cheerfully annoying greeting. Was there a radio nearby?
"Whatcha doin'?"
This time a teen. Girl. Playfully and energetic, dragging her words to tease. But there was no other person nearby. And the words, definitely from a close distance. All the hope that he wasn't alone with this thing died.
It was the creature.
Talking to him.
Talking.
In for eight.
Just ignore it.
It will go away.
Out in four.
It has to.
Blink.
Once.
It always worked before.
Twice.
It's still there.
A minute passed. Then another. And two more.
It didn't budge.
In for four.
Why was it still there?
Out in two.
Was it still talking?
He didn't know.
Couldn't focus.
All he heard was ringing in his ears.
“Hello?”
It spoke again. This time with a voice of a toddler. Still trying to grasp words. Unsure. Hesitant. Almost scared.
The man bit his lip, teeth drawing blood. He swallowed, ignoring the metallic taste. The ringing dying down.
“Can you see me?”
An adult man. Deep voice, slightly slurred speech.
Finally, with all the courage he could muster - which wasn't much - he turned his head around, towards the strange being.
“Can you see me?”
It asked again. The man noted that its mouth - did it even have a mouth? - didn't move. Or at least he hadn't registered any movement.
Breathe in.
Breath out.
He closed his eyes and nodded.
“So you can see me.”
A voice of a woman, soft, gentle, wrapping around him like a warm blanket. All of the sudden the night didn't feel so cold. Familiar. Too familiar.
The feeling of warmth flushed out of him, replaced by cold sweat and dread creeping up into his bones. Nestling in his chest.
That was his late mother's voice. He hadn't heard it since he was a little kid, barely nine.
He wanted to flee, run and scream, maybe cry but he was frozen in place. Eyes wide open, staring at the creature in front of him.
It moved.
It shifted so its weight was distributed more to one side than the other.
The man blinked again, trying to will it away.
Once.
The red “eyes” narrowed.
Twice.
It was further away.
Good. The further it is, the better.
“You don't like me very much, do you?”
A little kiddie's voice. Accusing. Huffing in a way only a bratty kid could.
“Should I?” He responded without thinking. He wasn't sure if it was due to exhaustion or pure stupidity. But now he could only hope it wouldn't get mad.
His heart was racing, the cold sweat dripping down his back.
In for eight.
The creature shifted again. The motion wasn't fluid, it was choppy. Like some frames were missing.
Out in four.
The red lines narrowed once more as it took a step back.
“Suppose not.”
It answered. Tired, aged voice. One could imagine their grandfather saying it.
He mulled over the small interaction before deciding to do something reckless. Talk again.
“Who- what are you?”
He muttered, stumbling against his words, barely above a whisper. Deep down, he didn't want the creature to hear. Didn't want an answer to the question.
“God.”
A choir of voices answered. Men, women, children, elderly. All overlapping, layering over one another. Desperate. Fighting to be the one in focus. To be the main one. To be heard.
The man was grateful he was sitting down. He didn't trust his legs. He felt weak, as if his bones needed only a light tap to break.
Despite the weight of the word, the creature didn't seem any different than it was just a few moments ago.
Still in place. Still not attacking or clawing at his ribs.
Just stood there. Watching. Uninterested. At least he hoped it was.
Was it really God? It didn't look like one. How does even a God looks like? Wasn't God supposed to be merciful? It doesn't look like it knows what that word even means. God is good, no? Is it good? Is God-
“God is flesh.”
It spoke again. Like it knew what he was thinking about. He shivered, not because he was cold, but because of the voice it chose, he was sure it was its own. Or at least belonging to something inhumane just like it.
“God will rot.”
It continued as he could only stare blankly.
The man lowered his head and mumbled.
“Are you really God?” He questioned. Not caring anymore about what he said. He was too tired.
“Could be.”
A non-answer. Not confirming nor denying.
“If you're God, why are you here?” He blurted out. Maybe he wanted an answer. Maybe that's why he spoke without thinking. On instinct.
“Why not?”
It admitted. Like it didn't matter. Strangely human.
He opened his mouth but couldn't find an answer.
In for eight.
“Do you always do things for a reason?”
It asked.
Out in four.
“I guess I don't,” he sighed.
A moment passed. The silence was stretching, but it was oddly comfortable. It shouldn't be, he knew damn well that he shouldn't be comfortable around it. And yet it was.
Whenever it was that weird voice, constantly treading the line between speech and animalistic growls or the fact it still wasn't aggressive. Maybe it was just the dizziness.
“So, you're saying you will rot?”
He muttered, glancing at the creature, God, as he remembered its earlier words.
“Already am.”
A moment passed.
“Your bus is here.”
It grumbled.
Before he could answer, his eyes closed. Once. Twice.
And he was on a bus. Already seated. Disoriented. Nauseous. He stumbled off as the bus came to a halt. Just to see the same street light - now working. There were shoeprints in the snow.
He took five steps before hitting the pavement.
The bus left and he sat down.