Bus

The rain came down in relentless waves, a cruel, ceaseless downpour that drowned the city in a haze of silver and shadow.

Ellen ran, head down, shoulders hunched against the cold, the weight of her bags dragging at her frame like anchors. The suitcase in her right hand swung wildly, its uneven bulk slamming into her thigh with every hurried stride. The holdall slung over her left shoulder pulled her sideways, its strap digging into muscle and sending sharp jolts of pain down her arm. Her backpack pressed against the damp fabric of her coat.

She clenched her jaw and kept moving.

Her sneakers had filled with water somewhere back there, but it hardly mattered now. Everything was already soaked.

Headlights smeared across the street. Halogen bled into wet tarmac. A car hit a puddle and sent a wave straight at her legs.

She flinched as icy water bit deep into her calves. Her jeans became instantly heavier.

She let out a sharp, breathless laugh, one of disbelief and sheer exhaustion. She was used to this. The way the universe liked to prove that however bad things got, there were still lower depths of hell to visit.

Figures watched from doorways. One man glanced up from his phone, took her in, then looked away.

She hated it. She didn’t want to be seen.

Not like this.

The bus shelter came into view on the far side of the park. Plastic roof. Metal bench. Flickering bus sign. It wasn’t much, but right now it might as well have been a lighthouse cutting through the storm. A promise of shelter, even if only for a moment.

A bus pulled in, air brakes hissing, doors opening with a swish, then a thud.

Ellen pushed harder.

She judged the distance and the route. Too far. Straight on to the junction, then right. She wasn’t going to make it in time.

She needed a shortcut.

She pushed through a hedge dividing the park from the pavement. It was too dark to tell what kind it was, but the branches were thorny, clutching at her like a thousand tiny claws.

Come back inside, it seemed to whisper.

She tore free, but her holdall snagged. She yanked hard. She didn’t have time for this. The claws lost their grip and the bag came flying free.

Ellen sprinted across the park. Waterlogged grass spat at her with every step. Her lungs felt lined with broken glass, each cold breath cutting deeper than the last.

She was going to make it.

Only just.

The squelch of grass gave way to the slap of concrete. She skidded to a stop at the open bus door. The driver looked down at her, eyes weighing the panting, rain-soaked wreck standing before him.

Ellen fumbled for her phone, yanking it from her back pocket. The screen glowed through a fine mist of droplets as she tapped it against the ticket reader. Her pulse hammered against her ribs.

Please.
Please, let there be enough.

The machine beeped.

A second passed.

Then it chimed again.

The screen flashed green.

Relief hit her so fast it nearly buckled her knees.

She staggered down the aisle, fingers locked around the suitcase handle, past tired faces and the occasional curious glance. She didn’t care. She had a seat. A dry seat.

She collapsed into it and let the bags fall where they landed.

The bus was warm.

She pressed her forehead to the glass and breathed. The engine hummed. Rain streaked sideways across the window. For the first time since leaving Tod’s apartment, her chest loosened.

Then she saw it out of the corner of her eye.

Bright pink.

She leaned closer.

Fabric poked through a tear in the side of the holdall.

The hedge.
The claws.

Her stomach dropped.

She tugged at the fabric until a pink sock slipped free.

Her gaze snapped to the aisle.

Another sock lay on the floor.

She turned back to the window.

Across the park, scattered through the grass, trailed her clothes. Shirts. Socks. Underwear. Everything she owned, marking her path like evidence.

Someone laughed. Quiet. Unkind.

Ellen’s throat tightened.

“Oh God.”

She lurched upright, heart slamming against her ribs.

“Stop,” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. Then louder, raw with panic. “Stop the bus. Please.”

Heads turned. The driver grunted, muttering something she couldn’t hear over the rush of blood in her ears.

“Please,” she said again. “I need to get off.”

The bus hissed as it slowed, brakes whining. It lurched to a stop and the doors swung open, spilling the smell of rain-soaked pavement into the stale warmth of the cabin.

Ellen shoved past knees and bags, gripping armrests for balance as she lunged for the exit.

She barely touched the pavement before the doors hissed shut behind her. The bus pulled away, swallowed by the night.

She ran back through the park, across sodden grass, snatching clothes as she went. Her fingers were numb. Mud soaked her knees. She tore off her coat and stuffed it into the holdall, jamming it against the rip.

The wind sliced through her cardigan straight to the skin.

She didn’t care.

By the time she reached the bus shelter again, she was drenched beyond saving. Her jeans clung to her legs. Her hands shook violently. Her hair dripped steadily onto the pavement.

She dropped onto the metal bench, chest heaving, arms clamped around the bundle of wet clothes in her lap. Wind screamed through the open sides of the shelter, rattling the plastic panel behind her.

For a moment, she just stared at the pavement, blinking rain from her lashes.

Trying to breathe.

Then, with a shuddering inhale, she pulled out her phone.

Her hands shook as she tapped the screen, vision swimming as exhaustion finally caught up with her. She knew what she would see before the numbers even loaded.

And there it was.

Her balance.

$0.12.

The ache in her chest collapsed inward.

The bus ticket had taken the last of her money.

There was nothing left.

A wet laugh slipped out before she could stop it.

Of course.
Of course.

She dropped the phone into the damp heap in her lap and dragged a shaking hand through her rain-soaked hair.

She needed to move.
She needed a plan.

Ellen squeezed her eyes shut, leaning her head back against the cold metal frame of the shelter.

Her breath left her slow and hollow.

Then the idea came.

She could go back to the bar.

To work.

It wasn’t permanent. It wasn’t good. But it was something.

She could dry off. Use the toilets. Wring out her clothes. Maybe steal a few seconds under the hand dryer just to feel warm again.

And if she was lucky, if fate decided to show mercy for once, she could talk her way into another shift.

Not for wages. She didn’t have time for that.

She needed tips.

Cash in hand. Enough for food. Enough for another bus ticket. Maybe even a cheap motel if the crowd was drunk enough and careless with their change.

It wouldn’t fix everything.

But it would get her through one more night.

Right now, that was enough.

Ellen pushed herself upright, muscles screaming in protest. The bar wasn’t far. Ten minutes, maybe less if she cut through the side streets.

Her legs felt like lead.

She forced them forward anyway.

One step at a time.

The rain fell harder, the city closing in around her.

But she kept going.

Because what else was there?