Bloated

"When did your symptoms start?" she says, the doctor. 

Her dark hair is tied into a tight bun and her dark skin clashes against her white coat. She must be Indian, they're all smart over there. She looks at me in the blank manner that all the "underpaid" and "overworked" doctors look at us: the sick, the lepers, the freaks.

"It's probably dietary related. It's a common IBS symptom," she says, commenting on my unsightly features. It's true, when you're fifty and single, your body is less of a temple and more of a crumbling tomb filled with Burger King and Amber Leaf.

She clicks her pen. My stomach growls and gnaws.

I'm stuck in the cramped surroundings of this lady doctors office. Every square foot of space has been tightly packed with electronics ready to to pinch, prod and probe poor patients. It's 2017 and hospitals still remind me of medieval torture chambers, they just have LED screens attached to their weapons now. 

The smell of lemon hangs in the air. The sanitised scent used as an attempt to hide the lingering death musk... It's not working.

She clicks her pen.

"Mr. Reeves?" The Doctor's head is now tilted like a dog trying to understand cricket. "When did this all start?"

My stomach growls and burns.

It was a week ago, my last bus route of the night. The coffin run we call it. Nobody normal gets on and you're just left collecting drunks, addicts and prostitutes and dropping them off at pubs, crack houses and parlours. Not that I mind, I actually kind of like it. At least these freaks keep themselves to themselves, and that's fine with me. Bus drivers usually get hassled for everything: lateness, uncleanliness, hotness. If it was the apocalypse tomorrow, some old dithery bird would blame me for it. Listen love, I just drive the bus.

The freaks of the night are fine with me.

This one particular night, a week ago, I can't remember if it was Friday or Saturday, I pull up at  the station and a woman gets on. She's looks young and foreign. Romanian or something. She's dressed like a tramp; her head is covered by a red scarf and her body is hidden by a large green quilted coat. I don't see any dirt or smears on her and I can't smell the usual scent of piss and booze, so I just assume that her style must be all the rage in Europe.

She'll be found in the morning, sliced open from the bottom of her ribcage down to her pubic mound.

This young woman, she shuffles onto the bus with her head down as if she's ready for a scolding. I can see a furl of dark brown hair unwind itself from the front of her headscarf and dangle in front of her dark brown eyes. She hunches, hugging herself as she struggles to get on.

Her head still down, brown eyes staring at the floor. I hear her quietly mutter something, I think she says "Anywhere,". Her accent is thick, she's definitely foreign. I tell her "Look, you need to buy a single or a return."

You've got to be firm with these night freaks, they're usually high on something and looking for a free ride.

"Single, far away," she mumbles and drops a handful of coppers in front of me. I rummage through. "This will get you as far as Crystal Peaks," I say.

She looks up at me with her big brown eyes, classic puppy dog style, but says nothing, just nods.

I scrape the coins away and print off the ticket. She walks away without taking it and sits down at the back of the bus. Hunched against the window. 

She's weird but we bus drivers are always dealing with weird, it's part of the job. It's overweight mothers slapping their kids. It's teenagers groping each other's cocks and fannies. It's demented old people trying to get home but not knowing where home is. It's businessmen yelling. It's babies screaming. It's the psychotics muttering. It's the sick. It's the poor... It's a living.