The Bus Stop

February 1, 2012
The stench of rain and mildew filled the glass box. Located on the corner of two busy streets, the box carried the scent of cigarettes, garbage, and young murder. The smell of blood was clear to anyone who walked by that old bus station, not only from the stains lining the metal benches but it arose out of the fear that people had for it. Normal citizens of the city would rather walk a thousand miles than wait for a bus in that station, leaving it mostly deserted, never erasing the ominous odor it always had.
I, as much as I try to avoid it, play a huge role in proving the stories of the bus stop true. Most view me as something evil, a selfish force out to peculate innocent lives, dragging their souls down to the depths of misfortune. I do not wear a black cloak, my face is not pale with the appearance of a skull, and I don’t reside in a fiery underground. I am not wicked or immoral. I am obliged to the bus stop year after year, malicious human nature keeps bringing me back, and always, I am blamed.
I watched a young boy; of about fifteen walk through the streets at night. Alone, he kicked a stone in front of him as he walked through the darkness towards the bus stop where I had just taken a teenage girl. I think he smelled the fear. For he stopped in his tracks, and looked up at the bus stop in a contemplative manner. But he was so unlike the others. So different, that instead of turning around, he walked straight at it. I sent wind to push him back, sent rain and lightening, but nothing stopped him, the boy wasn’t in my control.
Onward he went, breaking into a run as he entered the glass box. Holding my breath, (yes I do breath), I watched him fearlessly touch the dead girl on the shoulder. She showed no signs of abuse, no blood or bruising, no scratches and nothing broken. She looked asleep, peaceful even, as she lay on the cement sidewalk. But the stench, oh the stench, it filled his nostrils and drew him in. There was nothing I could do about that smell; no amount of hiding would conceal what it really meant. He already smelled it, he already knew. I wished once more that he would leave, go back to his home and his parents and forget all about what he smelled, but I knew that now it wasn’t possible. He sat there next to the girl for hours, breathing in the irresistible, and unmistakable smell of me.
I felt bad about taking the boy, but really there was nothing I could do. He sat there for days, the other humans thought it was shock of finding his sister dead, but I knew better. I knew what the smell could do to you. It held him, like the others, it killed him, in my very own bus stop. It killed him.





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