Bus Rides

The man and the boy sit there on the bus—silent and still. Neither of the two says anything. The bus itself is considerably more empty than normal. Maybe five people—these two included.
The man is old, probably some ninety years. His skin is slack, creased, aged—wise. His eyes are bright, crisp, laughing, sharp. A deep grey—steel blue, really. His hands and bony. Knuckles resemble marbles, linked with twigs, enveloped in thin weathered skin. These are the hands of a labourer—a farmer, no less.
The boy looks to be about ten. His skin is pale, soft, glowing—fresh. His eyes are dull, hollow, pained, hurt. A pale brown—like mud. His hands are small and plump. Fingers are stubby with gnawed nails. The hands of a nervous young child.
A few other people are there. But you don’t see them. The driver is missing. The bus moves along its path of its own accord.
The man is dressed in a black suit. The boy is dressed in a black suit. They resemble one another—a little. Both have a round face. Both have small ears. Both have dimples. They share the same nose.
The bus comes to a halt. The man stands, stretches out his hand. The boy stands, takes the offered hand.
“Come along, my boy,” says the old man. His voice is old, worn, afraid.
“Okay, grampa,” replies the boy, squeezing the man’s hand.
They step off the bus and disappear forever.

Suffocation Of Solitude

She sits there, alone in the corner of the room. Her chair is empty. The couch is layered with books, papers, pens...garbage, really. She hides in the corner. Her body shivers, trembles...shakes. Broken knees are held tightly under her chin by small and fragile arms.
Her stomach churns and flips. If there was any food contained within, she would throw-up. But she did that already. She had her supper. And then made herself sick. It's not hard to do. Not really. A necessary evil.
Mother always says she looks so good. So much more healthy than when she was big. Father believes that his eldest daughter is now My Daughter... and not, My other daughter who....
She rocks back and forth gently. Her eyes are shut tight. If she can't see the demons in the room, surrounding her, closing-in on her, then they can't hurt her. Can't devour her. Her breathing is ragged, shallow, and stressed. Cold sweat beads over her skin.
The blinds are drawn over the windows. There are only a dozen minute slivers of light filtering into the cold and desolate room.
She hides there, in the darkness. She hides from the world. She prays that the demons find her, destroy her. She prays that they destroy her before she destroys herself.