Leftovers Ch. 03

I laid my hand and pistol against my head, dropped into the last seat, and began crying. I couldn't have stopped him with that girl, couldn't have done anything except make him tear me apart also, taking hours to do it. Something in him made her knit back together, so he could enjoy it again and again, and it would have just happened to me too.

Running, or screaming, or anything else I could have done would have just gotten me killed. Joining him last night was the only reason I was around now, wanting to die for what I did to her, for watching her die, for touching her where he told me to touch her.

It must be hours before he tells me to put my gloves back on.

They're still on my hamper, smelling like the unnaturally blonde girl who must have boarded my bus two hundred times since I took this job, and whose face I never saw.

What was it I had been thinking, the same as I had thought many times before as I watched passengers drag their way on and off the bus? What's one less zombie in the scheme of things? Not a whole lot, unless you were the zombie. I straightened my coat, located my keyring, and moved to open the locker and retrieve the cleaning supplies. The bus was a mess.