Short story writing and creative fiction, essays and non-fiction stories.

He normally got the N155 to Elephant back home, but on that night his feet were hurting more than usual, the drizzle lying hoary on his hair, turning him to grey. The N333 is sat in the bay as he approaches, indicators flashing and doors closing as it goes to pull away. Rory hammers with the side of his fist on the damp red flank of the bus and, luckily, the driver pauses to let him on.

It is the older style of bus; the fabric on the seats is orange, shot through with geometrical shapes in a mustard yellow. The paint on the hold bar flecks off in his palm as he grabs the pole to steady himself as the bus jerks into the stream of traffic. They always bring out the old fleet of buses for this nothing period of the night, where the only people likely to be traveling are too drunk or too tired to care about the damp smell and abrasive seating.

Rory swings off the hold bar into a seat towards the back, where he can feel the rumbling of the left rear wheel under his feet. He is just settling himself, wedging his knees against the seat in front, when the bus eases into its next stop and a girl gets on.

She presses her Oystercard holder to the reader and then twists to slip it into her handbag as she moves down the aisle of the bus. He cannot see her face, but her hair is straight and blonde, her figure trim in a short black jacket and jeans. Her fingers are long and thin, pianist fingers, with chipped pale pink nail varnish. She tosses her damp hair over her shoulder as she swings her bag into a seat, and slides in after it.

Three rows ahead of him, she is hyper-real, each strand of hair haloed as the fluorescent tube bulb overhead picks up the droplets of rain clinging there. She fidgets – can she sense his eyes upon her? – and pulls her phone from her bag. The screen lights up as she flips the phone open and closed. No messages. She tosses her phone back into her bag and turns to face the window.

Her face thrown back by the dark window is what Rory expected; she is pale and strong featured. The rain on the outside of the glass gouges across the reflection of her face in streaks as the bus hits a straight road and moves up a gear. The two sit in silence as the bus trundles on through sleeping London. If she does sense his attention, she makes no sign of it.

The bus slows once more, but passes the next stop without pausing when the driver sees no passengers waiting there. The blonde girl pulls her phone from her bag again, distractedly. No messages. Who was she expecting a text from at this time of night, Rory wonders.

Another stop, this time to let off a passenger who had been sitting on the upstairs deck. The drunken woman lurches off into the night, and the driver hesitates at his wheel as he peers into the darkness after her, willing her home safely. The blonde girl shifts restlessly in her seat; she is eager to get home herself and there are only a few stops left to travel.

Slowly, slowly, the bus pulls away onto the road again. It is the darkest point of the night; moon and stars have set, but there is yet to be even the slightest chink of light in the eastern sky. The streetlights cast the world as orange and dull, reflecting hazily off of the wet humps of parked cars. The bus headlights shine straight, illuminating the rear of the night bus ahead.

The penultimate stop; the driver slows and carries on past when he sees that it too is empty. Rory knows that time is short now, minutes only. But he does nothing but watch the blonde girl as she checks her phone for a third time, and, once again, is disappointed. She places it back into her bag and zips it up.

Preparing for the short walk ahead of her, the girl pulls her hair back and rotates her shoulders as she inches towards the edge of her seat. A quick dash through the rain and she would be home; it had been a long day. Rory too, is preparing himself for leaving the close shelter of the bus, for braving the dark and the rain awaiting outside.

This bus terminates here. The blonde girl stands before the bus comes to a stop, clutching the pole by the exit doors as she adjusts the weight of her handbag on her shoulder. The doors slide open with a hiss and the blonde girl hops down. He hears the loose tarmac of the bus bay crunch under her feet as she lands somewhere in the darkness beyond the doors.

He is mere seconds behind her, but he knows now that however quickly he follows her, she is always gone by the time he reaches the doors. He is left with nothing but the shadows in the bus station. Behind him the bus gives a shudder and the lights die. The driver, shift half over, hops down from the front entrance. Giving Rory a perfunctory nod, collar up against the rain, he stalks off in search of a warm drink in a polystyrene cup to see him through till dawn.

Rory’s feet are aching again. He turns down a cobbled mews road, the shortcut home, out of habit more than anything. It only saves about three minutes. He stops suddenly; the streetlights refracting over the tops of the buildings are playing tricks on him, conjuring up the light of a pale face, of blonde hair tossed over a shoulder. She stalks ahead of him, leading the way home; surely it is just the pattering of the rain that is drowning out her heels clicking against the cobbles?

For the sake of three minutes; for the sake of an empty purse – Emma never trusted herself with cash; for the sake of a few extra hours sleep on his part, she was left like a rag doll there in these narrow mews, the blood soaked deep into the darkness of her jacket but oh so red against the paleness of her skin, of her hair, of the suede bag she clutched so fiercely to her chest, even in death.

Rory walks on, following the lights. He always picked her up from the bus station after she finished a night shift, but that night he had been irritable, tired. He’d needed the sleep. And so now, that sleep denies him is a justice that he welcomes. And so night after night he walks the rainy streets, following the sheen of her hair in the dark.

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Ever realized that the writing on the page is nowhere near as good as the idea in your head? You’re not alone…

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I’d got the call at about six-thirty the previous evening; Sunday – during “Songs of Praise”. Not that I was watching it.

“How quickly can you get down to London tonight?”

“Tonight? I can’t get there tonight; the last train has gone.”

“Ok, tomorrow, then?”

“Err… maybe just after lunchtime?”

“Ok, the job’s yours. Get there as soon as you can.”

And that was it. My first job out of Uni. Mum ran around like a maniac that evening: washing, drying, ironing, packing. A blizzard of activity, looking after her chick. Early next morning, Dad took me to the train station and put me and my case onto the London train, and then I hustled him off, afraid he’d get stuck on the train too. After I’d waved him out of sight, I jolted down the carriage to find a quiet seat.

They got on at Crewe; a youth with two children. The three wandered down the carriage, looking for seats, and stopped when they came level with me. I’d never seen anyone up close dressed like that before. He was all in black, ringlets dangling in greasy strands, bum fluff on his chin – his signet ring bit into the soft white flesh of his hand. He was dressed beyond his age. He slithered a glance at me, and then muttered something to his two charges who sidled in after him. He sat opposite me. We nodded, then disengaged our eyes. He took out a battered little book and began to read, muttering silently to himself.

I can’t say when I actually realised what was happening. At, first, I thought it just chance. Then I became convinced there was an unruly dog under the table. There was a pressure on my legs, which followed my limbs about, when I tried to keep out of the way. Then I noticed his eyes. Staring, unblinking, over the rims of his thick glasses. At me.

You know those icy fingers that are talked about? Well they played up and down my spine right then. I realised the “dog” was actually his legs pressing onto mine; chasing me around, under the table. And I knew he wanted to see my reaction; see me cringe and disintegrate, right there for his delectation.

But I decided differently. I leant back in the seat and uncrossed my legs and crossed then again; quickly and very firmly, catching my stiletto on his shin.

He winced.

I watched.

We stared eye to eye. I uncrossed my legs again, and crossed them again. Deliberately. He winced once more and looked uncertainly at his companions. They were oblivious to his pain.

I repeated my actions, connecting again; beads of sweat appeared under the black rim of his hat. He muttered disjointedly, and got up – shepherding his party further down the carriage.

I smiled; I knew I’d be able to look after myself then.

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“My home,” she said, indicating the contents of the plywood shack with a delicate sweep of her hand.

“It’s nice,” I lied, knowing she knew it wasn’t but not wanting to give offense.

“Sit,” she said, pointing to an ancient sofa with springs poking through the dirty brown fabric. I sat avoiding the sharp metal springs and the worst of the dirt. I acted as if I were sitting in a mansion, my smile as ever disarming.

“How long?”I asked. She flashed a smile and corrected an errant strand of dark brown hair.

“Not long enough,” She answered, ” I’m sure you’ve heard that before.”

“Many times,” I agreed. We sat for a moment in silence. Then she looked up.

“What do I get?” She was all business this one, there must not have been much time left.

“What do you need?”

“My daughter… she only has me to look after her.”

“She will be cared for.” I smiled, “I will see to it personally.”

“You won’t… my daughter I mean, no catches?”

“No, you need not worry. I realize my reputation is poor but that is the doing of others. I assure you I am an honest… man.”

She seemed comforted, I continued.

“As for you, there is no denying it won’t be pleasant but you will have the knowledge that your daughter is safe and her future her own. That is more than most. No strings. No tricks.”

“When… when will it happen to me.” She asked, bravely.

“Sometime within the next three days.”

“I would have thought you more precise, timed to the exact minute.”

“Oh it is,” I said, “but… better for you if you don’t know.”

“I see,” she said and smiled.

She then stood and held out her small thin hand. I took it gently and turned to leave. I moved slowly to give her a chance to change her mind. She didn’t. We had a deal. So many others had seemed strong until this final point then faltered. This one was strong. I stepped out into the fresh night air and started off towards my next visit without looking back.

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I hit end on my phone and think of what I should to do next. On the one hand, I should feel devastated and begin pour my eyes out. I should collapse on my bed and not move for the rest of the night. That would be nice, but it doesn’t sound right for me. I should calmly walk back to the room and announce that he won’t be able to come, despite his best efforts, and I probably won’t go anymore. I can already hear what they would all say.

“Sweetie, you already paid for the ticket. You should go, it’ll be fun.”

“Come on, you have to go.”

I don’t know how much fun it’ll actually be though without him. I attended the same formal last year. It was okay at first. The three of us arrived, them with their boyfriends and me alone (I already knew I would be alone, so there was no disappointment). We had our pictures taken, and danced to pop music while the guys looked on. The food was terrible, but we enjoyed complaining about it together. It was all fun, until the slow dances began.

I grab my towel, and head for the shower. Tears still threaten to pour out, but I stop them. I don’t want to seem like the type of person who seeks attention. I ponder whether I should let it out in the shower while no one is looking.

If only he was able to come, I thought. If only his bosses weren’t such jerks! I thought. A fire starts in my chest when I think of them. There was a 50% chance that he’ll be able to come and still keep his job. His tone though, already told me that it was impossible.

The water starts. My hair begins to drown me. My hands move the same way they do every night, but my soul is hundreds of miles away. I don’t know where it is. One minute, I’m in the past, then the future, then outside of my body watching a soap opera. I know no one is around to hear me, so this would be as good a time as ever. I stop myself though.

This is stupid, I thought. I’m just creating more drama than this needs to be. I hate drama. I went out of my way in high school to avoid all the useless drama. All the ‘he hates me’ and ‘she’s so annoying’; I don’t need it. I don’t need it outside and not inside my mind either. I know he wants to come as badly as I do, and making him feel guilty or anyone else feel bad won’t make things better. Even if I really begged him, and he quit his job to rush to my side, I would be one of those selfish preps who have disposable boys. It would be so selfish! He works so hard to help pay the bills in his house and raise whatever he can to go to college, while I’m here watching stupid videos on my stupid computer in between homework assignments. How can I even ask him to spend so much just to come to me for one weekend when that money can go somewhere useful? I’m pathetic. If I worked half as hard as him, then I might be worthy of being selfish.

I make up my mind; I can’t cry. It’s ridiculous high school drama that has no business in the Real World. It’s only a dance and it’s only one weekend. I don’t need the tears. I’m better than that. The emotions soon pass on as I continue to wash my hair and then my body. I think about happier moments in life, and my soul returns to my body by the time I finish by washing my face.

I turn the nozzle. None of the water on my face came from me. I grab the towel off of the rack and cover my face to dry. I try to lift it away, but it sticks. A movie starts and in an instant I hear soft music. I’m transported to a dance, watching so many happy couples dance in the dim light. There’s my roommate, my neighbors, and all my other friends. Our song is playing. I return to the present. One drop from each eye is reflected on the towel. Drama is not for me, so I won’t have it. I step out of the room, all wrapped up. My body is cold, and my heart is frozen.

Kristine Guadagno is a college sophomore from Boston. This is her first piece for Backhand Stories

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