Overcoming the Familiar
After one long, last draw, I flicked my cigarette under the bus that wheeled into the stop. I climbed up fast and immediately flung myself into a seat. Within a minute, the bus was full, which indicated the driver to push the button that closed the doors. As the engine gave a coughing, spluttering noise in protest, we departed from the ever buzzing center of the city. With a relieved sigh that finally I was on my way home, I turned up the volume on my MP3 player while I relaxed further into my seat. After the night I had, I couldn’t get home fast enough.
The funny thing is that I hadn’t even wanted to go. It’s always the same; ‘Come, let’s have a girls night out, we’ll have so much fun.’ I don’t want to go, then I realize that I’m being antisocial, then I go, then the night just sucks. Why do they always have to get so drunk that I’m forced to hold their perfectly groomed hair while they empty their stomach from glasses after more glasses of alcohol? Why can’t they be… I don’t know… groomed themselves? Or maybe, just maybe, I’m a sore loser because I cannot even manage to get drunk while still having fun. I always get sick first. Anyway, another long night ended, with lots of drinking, some vomiting while there hadn’t even been a cute guy in sight.
With that last thought in mind, I turned my attention from the receding city to scan the crowds whom I had such a great pleasure to travel with. There was a small group of friends at the very back of the bus; judging by their laud caterwauling they must had had a few more drinks than it could be considered healthy. Unsurprisingly, no cute guys there either. I glanced to my right just to have my eyes met with a pair of cold blue ones. He was older, definitely, perhaps in his mid-thirties; all average except for the eyes. A little creepy, I thought. After a onceover, I broke our staring match to search for at least one decent specimen. Finding none, I released a frustrated huff of breath, all the while thinking that this night had been a complete waste of time. Just to check on that weirdo, I glanced back at him to find that his eyes were still glued on me. I quickly turned back to the window as the familiar unease clenched my guts into an icy tangle of knots.
I hated this feeling, this inherent paranoia that was my grandmother’s legacy. Ever since I was a small child, she trained me to fear all strangers, especially all men as she perceived everyone as a threat. She constantly cautioned me, kept me on my toes in a vain hope that her teaching would protect me from the big, nasty reality that had been waiting for me out there. I usually scoffed at her outrageous ranting, because, hello, you cannot live your life in fear. My mother was only slightly better, a little more subtle, but a lot harder to ignore. Speaking of the devil, I felt my cell go off in an insistent buzz, interrupting my nervous inner rambling as well as, incidentally, my favorite song as well. “Come on, mom,” I whined, “stop checking up on me, I’m eighteen!” It always irritated me to no end that she just couldn’t leave me alone even for one night. I rejected her call out of pure irritation, knowing full well that she wouldn’t call again, but she would give me hell when I get home. All in all, it was totally worth it.
As we left the unkempt fields just outside of the city, I decided to take off as I didn’t want to wait for the bus to circle around the whole damn district before it arrived back to the stop closest to us. This way I could get home within ten minutes, a prospect that was very tempting at this moment. After gathering my purse close to me, I had a brief struggle with the straps of my high-heeled shoes, then I finally managed to signal. When the bus came to a halt, I hopped down on my wobbly feet, waiting for the monstrous, wrecked thing to wheel away so I could get going. I watched it as it lurched forward with another sickly snort, then I glanced to my left to check for the traffic. There was none, though I noticed that the guy, that weird creep with the intense blue eyes had gotten off of the bus as well. My paranoid fears immediately returned, tenfold.
For a moment, I considered waiting for another bus, my grandmother’s warning echoing in my ears. Nervous, but more than a little irritated, I told myself that I needed to get past this irrational fear, that I needed to act like a grown up, not like the skittish little girl my family wanted me to be. I couldn’t live in a constant terror or start freaking out when someone glanced askance in my way. I squared my shoulders with resolve as I crossed the road to turn to the left on the other side. As I walked along the sparsely illuminated street, I couldn’t help lengthening my stride, nor the need to turn off my MP3 player. Suddenly, I realized how foolish my bravado was, walking home in a deserted street at the dead of night. I was intensely aware of the familiar clicking sound my high-heels made. I was frightened, all alone, vulnerable. I instinctively tightened my coat around me, seeking some comfort from its warmth. Just when I was about to exhale in my exasperation at myself, I heard a sharp crack, just behind me. I ran.