The word “HI” was wiped into the fog of the window, condensation trickling down, weeping. The cold outside kissed the glass while the suffocating and muggy smell of children tried to escape inside.
He sat there, head against the window, feeling the bite from outside. The world around him screamed.
A “Where’s Wally” book flipped constantly beside him, as two kids slapped the pages enough to give a librarian a headache. If only she knew. Another two kids sat in front, bags on their backs, prepared to go off to the warground/playground. Their hands gripping the bar of the seat in front .The aisle of the bus, covered in the morning dew and random pieces of grass, that snuck in from leather shoes outside.
He couldn’t be bothered even trying to describe to his senses what occurred outside. He saw it everyday. He was shutting his eyes again. There was a lot of contrast between the skin of his eyelids. Two worlds.
The other world came into view as his imagination flew up the screen and turned on the projector of his mind.
The bus lay on its side, wedged between a giant lump of rock covered in moss and a few proud and strong gum trees. The stillness hung heavy from such a dramatic scar in the landscape, with the muffled screams of children. He was outside the bus. The hero. Well he was about to become the hero. His hand through a shattered window, pulling out the pathetic children inside. “Where’s Wally” lay flat against the window, no one was looking for him now. Flash forward, he stood proud at school assembly, commended for his bravery.
There was a jerk. He was there. The border of the worlds slid open. The real day begins.
The monotone air hit his nostrils once again. Its cool quench was the official and familiar smell of the last eight years of his life.