BUS RIDE (One-shot/Short story)

Riding in a bus

I honestly never took the liking in bus rides. But I did not tell my mother nor my father about it. They would never understand. How could they? They would only scold me and they would prod me unto telling them why. And that I could never indulge myself into.

During stop overs, my mother usually went to the comfort rooms and sometimes I was left in the bus to see our things over and to tell new passengers that the seat beside me was already taken. And during those moments, I could feel my muscles quiver in fear. What if the bus driver forgot that another passenger was still at the rest room?What if my mom step into another bus? Did other passengers notice that my flesh was trembling? Did they smell the scent of my fear? And when mother came back to seat beside me, I wanted to shout for joy and embrace her tightly. But I never did. I was old enough to control my emotions especially my fears and anxieties. That was my mantra.

"I am old enough to control my emotions. I am old enough to overcome my fears. It happened in the past," I mumbled. This was how I comforted myself many times.

But whose fault really was it? Was I too young to say no to the kisses and touches of another? Maybe my innocence was the one to be blamed. If I knew that those actions were wrong then I could have done something to prevent it. Could I stop it really?

My mother once told me that she thanked the Lord for giving her jewels such as me. And I never had the strength to tell her that I was tarnished already. And I could not count the nights when I woke up,drew my knees to my chest, and cried. I hoped that the tears would wash away the invisible muck which covered my being. But as I grew up, I always felt dirty and unworthy.

Perhaps I was too young and too scared to tell anybody of what happened. My college professor once said in the class that children sometimes could not separate reality from fantasy. I pondered on her words thinking maybe what occurred to me was never real. Perhaps I saw something on the television about sexual abuse and had a notion that the victim was me instead of the other girl. My head ached no matter how I tried to deny. I remembered vividly that it happened not just once but many times. It was no fantasy.

A grown up playing with kids were quite normal and I really thought those he taught me were part of the games we played. In time when I grew up and understood the rightness and wrongness of things I was horrified to know that it was all very wrong, I cringed, feeling terrible of what I did. It was my fault. It was always my fault that I let him do it. I could have said no. But I did not know!

I did not know!

Years of crying in silence.

I wanted to shout and get this burden from my chest. I wanted to tell my mother about it. But I decided not to be selfish and unload the heavy baggage unto her. It would not be fair to taint another one's innocence. It would not be right to blurt out to her that I was abused. I would never be the one to make her feel that she was the worst mother in the world by not protecting me.

"I am old enough to control my emotions. I am old enough to overcome my fears. I am old eno-"

"Miss?Miss?" someone tapped my shoulder. I glanced up and saw the driver telling me, "We're already in our destination. You probably have slept and did not notice we arrived. You're the only passenger left."

I said my thanks as he was getting off the bus. I got my things from the compartment above and dragged my feet slowly towards the door. I always dislike traveling by bus. I breathed in deeply as I stepped down and stared at the surrounding. I glanced at the sky and noticed the sun was already rising. We arrived early.

I walked on, carrying my traveling bag and said my prayers for the safe journey. But deep inside I knew that my struggle to be whole never ended. Memories still keep flashing from time to time. I still had to ride buses. It was torture but then I had to move on.

I need to keep my mask on. No one should suspect the brokenness in me.This is my secret. And I would keep it until my last breath.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I would like to dedicate this story to those people (men and women) who struggled (and still struggling) the aftermath of a childhood abuse (sexual or not).

I would like to take credit on the artist of this cover picture. I would like to know you but I don't. :-D