Insidious Wrath - K.TH.

One

The bus ride home at the end of the day always put you to sleep. 

Ten at night: street lights flickering mindlessly by, honking of trunks off to the highway in the west, wandering mixes of all kinds of people. No one slipped onto the bus unless it was an elderly person or a homeless individual who found money to take them to a needed shop after the hard day of laboring around on the sidewalk with what belongings they willed to carry. 

The hum of the low radio upfront was the station the Tuesday bus driver liked to listen to; it consisted of older music, maybe sixties or seventies. The tunes were always a lulling feat to succumb you to sleep. Your days of consistent work and survival drowsed your eyelids a tad here and there, but it was particularly rare to find yourself falling asleep on your route home. You were cautious about the stops you passed by. Walking anymore on your aching heels that had worn through your shoes' soles would collapse you to your knees. 

But tonight was one of the nights your mind drifted into the foggy haze you tried so desperately to fight occasionally. 

It wasn't a comfortable sleep--more of an anxious-and-on-edge type of sleep you would feel when you watch a child through the night to make sure nothing happens to them. You were on edge about trying to land on your stop perfectly, but the stop was second in line when it came to your slumber catching up. The lead-heavy limbs and the blurry vision was tumbling you deeper and deeper into the dark world that you fought every day for so long. 

The wobble of the bus coming to a halt slowly broke your mind away from the silence it was falling into, but, with a quick glance, you found you weren't close to your stop yet; rather, the bus stopped at the edge of downtown where the mix of people lingered. The stop always made you uncomfortable as you hoped for an elderly woman to climb on or a silent homeless person to slink into the closest chair up front. Usually your wish came true. 

Not tonight. 

Only one person managed to struggle onto the bus with a slight stumble and a sniff with a sleeve running under their nose. It was a gruff-looking man: blood dripped from his left nostril, his knuckles appeared beat up, sweat trickled down his temples, his chest started the recovery of fresh air with deep breaths that lingered. His dark, threatening eyes were pinned to the door of the bus as he slowly made his way through the aisle; he was waiting for someone to follow him. 

You dreaded anyone else to hop on the bus. Your call was answered. The only thing that managed to spike your anxiety was that the man grew close to your seat, but sat in a seat across the aisle, a few rows ahead of you. Your nerves slightly calmed. Your pacifistic nature dreaded confrontation, not to mention shady figures that easily loomed over and dominated your shrinking stature. If the man had sat behind you, you would have moved to the front of the bus. Being in front of you on the opposite side of the vehicle was better than sitting a few chairs behind, ready to close in for a pounce. 

You ignored the man mumbling to himself as his head flicked around with nervousness, but also with fury (not to mention you couldn't clarify any words over the hum of the engine). The ease brought your back to relax slightly against the back of your seat. You thought you were more on guard than usual. 

Apparently not. 

You dozed again. The workload from the day must have pounded you to the floor with exhaustion. Your lulling head pressed against the cool window compared to the humid, disgusting air of the bus. It was nice for a little, but once the potholes hit, your skull hit the plastic window with so much force that, when startled awake, you collapsed into the seat beside you. 

The groggy state of your mind slit your eyes open while you pressed a sweaty palm against the part of your head that hit the window. Your weak, free arm shook as you tried to pick yourself up. You managed to utter one low word under the rumble of the bus: "Shit."

Something landed on your crumpled figure. You had been told several times that you were sensitive to many things--which explained why you were an overall sensitive person--and, with that, came the feeling of being watched. Coming to sit back up, the only person on the bus beside the bus driver was the man. You slightly gazed his way to try and peek any look he was giving. You managed to spot his boring stare coming your way with the red around his right eye turning purple--but it turned quickly away. 

You sighed to yourself as heat rose from your neck to your face to your ears. You were pissed to find someone witness the naivety you knew you held inside. It was already enough at work and in public that you made a fool of yourself in a variety of ways, but it was disappointing to find you could even do that on a public bus. You reached a hand up to your face and rubbed the sweaty palm against your eye socket to somehow wake yourself up a little. 

"Driver!" the man spat out in a snippy, slightly shouting tone to the front of the bus. The driver's gaze moved to the mirror without a look of care for miles. The man proceeded, standing up from his seat. You could see more of him. "How many stops are there before the line ends?"

"Twelve," the bus driver huffed with exhaustion. You could sense he was ready to be off his shift already. "If you're gonna ask for me to take you to a personalized stop, I don't--"

"Not necessary," the man cut off the driver with a flick of his wrist. While watching him, you could see that he was slightly animated--a little over dramatic in some sense. Not to mention, underneath all the scars and blood and overall beaten up look, he was somewhat handsome. You weren't going to lie to yourself about that. "I'll find a stop to get off on."

The driver looked with narrowed eyes, but gave a final shrug and continued the route without any more questions or concerns. 

You watched the man sit back down in his seat, stern, serious expression planted right on his posture and features. The blood that coated his skin was slowly drying, no longer glistening in the fluorescent lights of the bus. You couldn't help but grow curious about who this man was. Something inside you knew better than to confront him, but you couldn't help but make stories in your head that matched the scars and bruises. 

The first story you thought to yourself was that there was no way you would ever be able to talk to him. Many people made you anxious in general, but people who were gruff and ragged like this guy was were the ones that you couldn't stand to be around. You melted in the presence of anyone like that. You wanted to cry, to leave. Something didn't feel right when you were around them. 

You weren't sure if it was because it was your nature or if something caused that in the first place. It seemed like a mix of both to you. 

A few stops later, you were grateful to find yourself a block away from your tattered studio apartment. The driver knew exactly what this stop meant, completely coming to a halt to let you off. You quickly gathered your purse and plastic bag, slung the two over on shoulder, and started to the front of the bus. 

Passing by the man, you couldn't help but sense something strange in the air. He was completely calm and collected in his seat, barely paying an inch of attention to you, but something was still off. A chilling shudder raced down your spine while your fingers grew cold and numb. A random word flickered through your mind, one that you had no connection to: Taehyung. You didn't have time to think much of it as you hurried out of the odd-feeling bus, saying a quiet, quick thank you to the bus driver that was a usual ritual you followed at the end of the night in public. 

Now on the street, your chest grew lighter, like you could breathe again. The feeling in your body dissipated as the bus left your side and down the road, leaving you to the humid, sticky night. Usually you would have had the feeling that you were swimming through the profound humidity, but rather you were now free, like you broke through a barrier you managed to surpass at some point. 

You tried not to think about the bus. You had dozed to sleep multiple times on the bus and your whole body was ready to collapse on the sidewalk. What happened on the bus probably would have never existed if you had enough sleep in your system. Your psyche was playing tricks like it usually did. 

Though, something deep inside you told you otherwise.