Number Seven

Chapter 1

I hate the color green. I hate how it shows how alive the world is, and how happy it makes everything look no matter where you go. Even in graveyards, it happens to make everything brighter. I can't even look at the passing oaks, whipping past me, in this bus, taking me God knows where.

The floor is so dirty. Dust is collectively resting on my boots. The seats look like psychotic, rabid animals on their way to the insane asylum. There's a kid on the other side with curly red hair who won't stop staring at me. He looks like he robbed the McDonald's clown of two hundred hamburgers and a few sides of fries.

There's another girl three rows ahead of me who's been pretending to put on blush for half of the bus ride, occasionally angling her mirror in my direction. The more I stay in this seat, the harder my teeth crush against each other. With every passing minute, my blood seems to grow warmer and warmer.

Everything is quiet. No one is talking. If something hits the cold floor, everyone's attention is immediately dragged to the person responsible. It's infuriating. I feel like I'm suffocating.

I'm holding on as tight as I can to the straps of my duffel bag. My feet shift forward. My eyes spin around at the two people in charge. One in front. One in back. Neither of them is in incredible shape, but both can take me down in a heartbeat. By the time I mentally count to three, I'm off my seat and marching towards the emergency exit, duffel bag in hand.

A man darts out of his seat, blocking my path before I stop. "What're you gonna do?" he asks, chin up. I swallow. His eyes mock me like the devil as he inches closer. I look away. "Jump out the back while the bus is still driving? In the middle of nowhere?" He leans down so that I might glance at him for a mere second. There's stubble on his face and a wicked look in his eye. The smell of alcohol is burning my eyes as I notice the distinguished beer belly he has growing inside of him. "Half the kids who do, end up stranded, and the other half die because they don't have the means to survive."

I jerk my eyebrows, acknowledging his point, and widen my eyes out of mockery before returning to my state of not caring. It's almost as if he's waiting for an audible response from me; waiting for me to suck it up and sit down in the torn seats of this bus. But the only thing I'm doing is looking out one of the many windows of this dark and gloomy form of transportation, trying my best not to give a damn.

I sense the impatience in the air as my eyes sway back to his. "So sit back down," he advises sternly.

My lips press together before pivoting on my heel and returning to my seat. When I look up, I find that the girl from before finally has a good excuse to stare at me, along with everyone else. I switch back to the familiar routine of avoiding the trees and occasionally glaring at the plump boy beside me.

I've probably cracked every joint I know how to at least six times by the time someone hollers something and the bus comes to a stop. I have to rub my eyes to make sure I'm not daydreaming about the impossibility of this ride coming to an end.

Two men up front are shouting at us to get off this rust bucket and my patience has reached its breaking point. I don't want to be here.

They're having us form three lines with kids from other buses. Everyone is either carrying the same expression I am or dealing with the crap that's been loaded onto their lives. I don't want to be here.

Some of them are trying to run away or screaming for their parents to come and save them. Some are just standing still, not saying a word.

I don't...want to be here.

It's bright enough outside to look like summer but it's clear to see how the cold temperature is affecting some more than others. Whether they are hugging their bare arms or jumping up and down to keep warm doesn't matter to me. The line gradually moves forward as it lures me along. All I want to do is get out of here and find a way to escape.