Short Story Show-and-Tell #1: Despondence, or A Presage of Hope

Welcome back to Musings of an Arthritic Artist! Today I've decided to do something different. I have decided to upload one of the short stories I've written onto my blog! 

I began writing this story in April 2020. I had been cruising the internet and had somehow come across urban legends. I think I was looking for story ideas or something. Anyway, there was one that fascinated me because of how many different directions it could be twisted. 

It's an urban legend from Philadelphia that talks about a bus to nowhere that appears when someone is at their lowest point. It doesn't follow a route. It only appears to people who are in despair. To ride it, you have to chase after it. The other passengers on the bus (besides the mysterious driver) are ones that are also in despair for whatever reason. 

When you feel ready to return to your life, you pull on the bus cord and disembark. The only caveat is that time passes differently while you're on the bus. Sometimes mere minutes pass by. Other times, it's years. I decided to utilize this. Obviously, I had to twist around the legend a bit to fit my story. 

Disclaimer: This story includes disability, a car accident, a brief mention of a suspected suicide (no attempt or explicit ideation is included, nor is an actual death), a brief mention of assault, a brief mention of a plane crash, a brief mention of cancer, and a brief mention of childhood abuse 

With that disclaimer aside, sit back, relax, and enjoy my story! 

King, Alexandria. Musings of an Arthritic Artist. 2021.

Despondence, or A Presage of Hope

by Alexandria K (2020-2021 [16-17 years old])

This is hopeless. I need to escape. Guilt courses through my mind, drowning me. I walk as quickly as possible. Doctors and nurses seem to be in all the halls and rooms. The sterile hospital smell has gotten to me. I've been here too long.

The moment I make it out of the hospital, I run as fast and far as my legs will allow. Droplets of rain land on my skin. I pause beside a tree, looking up. Nimbostratus clouds cover the evening sky in charcoal gray. I've run out into a storm, but I don't care. Anywhere is better than suffocating hospital rooms and halls.

The earthy scent of rain is freeing and refreshing. I close my eyes, breathing in the fresh air. The air doesn't keep my mind from racing, but at least I'm not surrounded by doctors who don't have definitive answers, no matter how much they try to find them.

I open my eyes, looking ahead. Even in the grim light, I can see the definitive outline of a bus stop about twenty feet away from me.  

   Perfect.

   I need to leave. Get out of town maybe. I don't know. I just have to leave. I can’t stay here.

I run toward the station as I hear an ambulance arriving at the hospital. A midnight blue bus doesn't stop, instead speeding past me. I chase it.

   The bus comes to a halt, brakes screeching. The door opens to reveal the driver and allow me on. The moment I board it, I'm overwhelmed by the scent of lemon. It smells like the perfume my mother bought me for my birthday a couple years ago.

   There's no money jar. Instead, the driver signals for me to sit. This is when I realize I’m not the lone rider.

   Six passengers accompany me. Several blank faces look up at me, and I quickly assess each one of them. There’s a girl who looks to be around nineteen, along with an old man wearing a fedora and trench coat, and a boy around my age in the back. Every passenger is staring longingly out the window, their eyes glazed over. A parentless little girl, maybe eight, sits on the left side of the bus, her chestnut brown hair in pigtails.

   I proceed to the back of the bus, sitting on the opposite end of the boy, and stare out the window. Rain spills down the glass, almost as if it is sharing my despair. The landscape is a blur. I look at the boy minutes later, unable to stare at the rain any longer.

"Do you know where we're going?" I ask.

   He turns toward me, his eyes cadet gray. "I don't know and I honestly don't care. I just wanted to escape life."

   "You too, huh?"

   He nods and runs his hand through his short, side-swept chocolate brown hair. "Why are you here?"

   I shrug. "Same reason. I want to escape and go anywhere but here."

   I look at the other passengers. The little girl is dirty and her clothing is in tattered rags. The old man mutters to himself, loud enough for me to overhear.

"Ethel, my love. Hattie, my dear girl."

   As I scan the bus, I spot a man in his early twenties who is wearing what looks to be a military jacket. His eyes are full of pain and suffering, much like the other passengers on board. The only difference is he looks as if he's haunted by his past. He has military medals on his jacket, but I only recognize one--a simple one I've seen on license plates and in museums. The one my grandfather has hanging up on his living room wall from after he was conscripted into the Vietnam War.

   The medal is a simple purple ribbon attached to a gold heart with an obverse profile of George Washington in the middle. A purple heart, the medal awarded to soldiers who get killed or are wounded in battle. This man seems as if he could be older than my grandfather. He's obviously younger in age, but his jacket looks old, yet new, as if it's an old design. It looks identical to the uniforms I've seen American soldiers wear in old photos from World War II. I gaze out the window again.

   The rain has turned to snow, though my mind barely processes it. The bus has become colder. I raise my hand to the window, my fingers freezing as I touch the glass. I shift my attention to the boy beside me. Incredibly visible bruises and scars mar his tanned skin, and I can't helping glancing at them.

"What are you running from?" I ask.

   He looks at me. "My father. Everyone on this bus has wanted to escape from something. Hundreds, if not thousands of people have ridden and disembarked. I can tell you many stories, including the ones of everyone on board."

   He's piqued my interest. "Who's the little girl?"

   His eyes fill with sympathy. "She's homeless. Her mother died of cancer, and her father died in a plane crash. She’s an orphan. The woman over there," he says, pointing to the teenage girl. "Her parents are divorced and her boyfriend assaulted her."

   "And the old man?"

   "Widower. Lost his daughter as well."

   "And the soldier?"

   "Fought in World War II. Has PTSD and survivor's guilt."

   "The other man?"

   "Lost his job. Can no longer support his family." The boy peers at me. "What about you? What's your story?"

   I bite my lip. "I'll only tell mine if you tell me yours."

   He shrugs. "My father's physically abusive, my mother isn’t all there. Your turn." He says this with such nonchalance that I assume he's used to this question.

   I hesitate before telling him. After I do, I stay silent, staring out the window, and think about everything that has gone wrong. The scent of lemon is the only thing slowly calming my mind.

   I can still see the events as they unfolded in my mind. 

   My brother and I had just finished attending a local college football game.

---

I open the driver’s side door. I spot my older brother, Peter, over the top of my cobalt blue sedan. 

   "Are you sure you’ll be okay to drive?" he asks. "The road seems a bit icy. I could drive. Or I could call mom to pick us up."

   I shake my head. "I can drive. It’s fine."

   My brother stares at me. “Seriously, Emma. Let me drive."

   "No. It’s my car. It’ll be fine."

   I get into my car and put the key in the ignition. It immediately starts up, allowing me to drive through the university parking lot. 

   "Be careful," Peter says when we leave the parking lot. "You don’t want to go too fast."

   "I’m fine."

   We drive through the college campus toward the main road. Home is fifteen minutes away, but it's pitch black outside, and the roads are slick. I try to drive as carefully and slowly as the speed limit allows.

   Luckily, the main road isn’t busy. There are quite a few cars on the road, but there doesn’t seem to be much traffic from the football game. Most of the spectators must have been students or they drove another way.

   Peter turns on the radio. I’m surprised he didn’t turn it on when we were driving to the game hours ago. "Really, Emma?" my brother asks. "Could you be any more basic?"

   I roll my eyes, braking to a halt when the stoplight in front of me turns yellow, then red. Peter changes the radio to our local alternative station.

   "Why are you changing it?" I ask, glancing at the radio. "It’s my car."

"Mainstream pop is boring."

   "How would you know?" I ask. "You never even listen to it."

   "I don’t have to. I hear enough of it from you."

   I turn at the intersection and the car immediately begins sliding across the icy asphalt. I turn the steering wheel to attempt to right the car, but it doesn’t work. I glance at Peter, who gazes at the road from the passenger seat.

   I freeze when I see the utility pole the sedan is speeding toward. My heart pounds inside my chest.

   We’re going to crash.

   Time loses all meaning. 

   To my right, my brother unclicks his seatbelt.

   No. 

   Just before the impact, Peter tries to shield me with his body.

   I don’t have enough time to process anything before there’s a crunch and the crash of glass shattering. My head jerks forward, then whips back against my seat. Everything grays before fading to black.

   When I regain consciousness, my vision takes a minute to clear. The windshield is fractured, glass all around me. My hands are bleeding from a few cuts. 

   I look around frantically, my mind still fuzzy. 

   Where’s Peter? He’s not in the car.

   I unclick my seatbelt as quickly as I can. Pain flares through my chest, but I try to ignore it. I stumble out of my car, immediately overwhelmed by vertigo. The asphalt sways under my feet. My head is throbbing. Leaning against my totaled car, I look around.

   That’s when I see him.

   My brother must’ve been thrown from the vehicle. There’s no other explanation. He’s lying facedown on the ground. I carefully maneuver toward him, kneeling at his side, immediately fearing the worst. My breaths are shallow, both from fear and the pain in my chest.

   Please don’t be dead.

   I check his pulse and exhale.

   He’s still alive.

   I look him over without moving him. I don’t know how badly he’s injured. His head is bleeding and his arm is bent at an awkward angle.

   "Peter?" I ask. "Can you hear me? Open your eyes."

   He doesn’t respond.

   I look around. We’re in the middle of nowhere, though I know where we are. We’re about five miles from home. It’s too far for me to run for help, especially considering I can barely stand, much less walk.

   I pull my phone from my pocket, hoping it isn’t broken. My lock screen immediately appears the moment I turn it on.

   "I’m calling an ambulance," I say, though I doubt my brother can hear me.

---

It didn’t take long for the ambulance to arrive. The paramedics took us to the hospital immediately. My mind was racing with possibilities. I ran through every scenario, beginning with the worst ones, each thought terrifying me more and more.

   What if something happened to Peter?

   What if he didn’t survive?

   The days after were the worst. I was released sooner than my brother was. My mother broke the news to me the second night I was there. 

   "The doctors believe your brother is paralyzed from the waist down," she explained.

   My chest felt weighed down by guilt. "What?" 

   "Sweetie, that isn't the worst of it." My mother grabbed my hand. "He's in a coma." 

   "Will he be all right?" I asked. "Will he come out of it?"

   I’ll never forget the grave expression on Mom’s face. "The doctors don’t know," she said, pursing her lips. "He’s in the ICU." My mother continued. "You sustained a concussion and a few broken ribs."

   I tried so hard not to let myself cry. "Mom, do you really think I'm worried about myself right now?" I asked.

   Truth is, I wasn't. My brother's football playing days were gone if this was permanent. He would potentially never open his eyes again and it was all my fault. Guilt has engulfed me ever since, crashing into me like a wave in the ocean.

   After I was released, my mother and I visited every day for eight days. She probably kept going every day, but I couldn't. The eighth day was the day I couldn't handle it anymore. That day was today.

   I can hear my brother's voice in my head, berating me. 

   "This is all your fault, Emma," he says. "You should've listened to me. Thanks to you I'll never play football again."

   I look out the window. I should’ve listened to him. I should’ve let him drive.

   I should've been the one paralyzed in that accident. I should've been the one in the coma. Not Peter. He didn't deserve any of this. 

   For all I know, he’s dead. My lip trembles. If he is, I know that’s a wound I would never heal from. If he is, it’s all my fault.

   My focus shifts to the driver, whose eyes meet mine through the rearview mirror. Warm golden eyes stare back at me. I have the sudden urge to leave the bus, like I've finally reached my destination. 

   Is that possible even if you don't even know where you want to go? 

   I stand to pull the cord by my window. 

   "This is my stop," I tell the boy.

   He nods. The bus slows, screeching to a halt. I approach the doors. 

   "Hey, before you leave," the boy calls. "What's your name?"

   "Emma," I answer.

   "Thomas," he replies. I smile and take one last deep breath in--still smelling nothing but citrus--before I exit and watch as the bus drives away, its form fading into nothing, like vapor. By the time the bus disappears, my memory has become fuzzy. Where am I? What am I doing here?

   I am taken aback when I realize where I am. The driveway of my house. The flowers on the tree in my yard are blooming. I knock on the front door. When it opens, I cover my mouth with my hand. My brother appears on the other side. 

   "Emma?" he asks, bewildered. He's in a wheelchair. He looks exhausted. "Mom!" he yells, a smile on his face. "You'll never guess who's at the door."

   My mother walks up behind my brother, her eyes widening as she recognizes me. "Emma," she says, hugging me. "Where have you been?" She looks at my clothes. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

   I shake my head and stare at her. "I’m fine. Why?"

   "Come inside," my mother says, turning her back. Her expression is full of shock and happiness.

   "What happened?" I ask my brother.

   He looks me over, his eyes wide. "Emma, you've been missing for five months."

   "What?" I rack my brain, trying to remember where I've spent the last five months, but no memory comes to mind. Where have I been?

   "You've been missing for five months," my brother repeats, trying to keep his voice calm. "Mom filed a police report, but they never found you." His voice becomes fragile. "I thought you might've thrown yourself off Black Cliff."

   I look at his wheelchair. It's manual. My bottom lip trembles. "I'm so sorry."

   He raises an eyebrow. "For what? Being alive?"

   I shake my head, though his words might have a semblance of truth. "For your accident," I say. "I was foolish. I made a careless mistake. I should've listened to you. I should've let you drive."

   Peter shakes his head. "It's not your fault. I don't blame you. Ever since I awoke, I've not blamed you, and I never will. When I opened my eyes, Mom was beside me. I asked about you. She told me that you had survived the crash but that you were missing. I was scared." He looks away. "No. That's the wrong word. I was terrified. I knew you'd blame yourself. I was worried about your health. It wasn't your fault, Emma. You couldn’t have known what was going to happen."

   "Just yell at me," I tell him, my voice cracking. "The accident was my fault. You tried to warn me, but I refused to listen."

   My brother crosses his arms. "If you wanted me to yell at you, you should’ve been there when I woke up. Right now, I’m just glad you’re alive."

   "What about football?"

   He smiles. "Come to my room. You've missed a lot."

   I follow Peter to his room, where I sit on the edge of his bed. His room looks exactly as it did before, albeit with less trash on the floor. 

"What have I missed?" I ask.

   "Football," he says, a wide smile on his face.

   I frown. "I don't understand."

   Peter hands me a paper. "Mom found a wheelchair football team for me to play on. We've been playing games for a few weeks now. Practice for when football season really starts. Mom convinced me to play during summer with them. I could've played with them before, but I was worried about you. You don't know how much I've missed you."

   I give him back the paper. "You're feeling okay, then?"

   He nods. "As okay as I can be. I admit, the last few months have been hard. I was angry with you at first. Then Mom told me you were missing, and suddenly the anger subsided. I didn’t care much about the accident anymore. I just cared about your safety. There were times I felt like giving up. Even though I had hope, there were days I thought you were dead. I'm not ashamed to admit I hadn't slept well because of it." My brother pauses before continuing. "Where did you disappear to anyway?"

   I shrug, looking down. "I honestly don't know. I feel like I should, but I've got nothing. I last remember being at the hospital eight days after the accident. Mom and I had been visiting you. I ran out the door. I couldn't take it anymore. Everything after that is a blur, but I know it was raining. Then, I was standing in the driveway, with no recollection of how I got there. One minute, I feel like there is no hope--that I'm in an inescapable pit of despair--and the next minute, I'm content, like hope has returned. Almost like it never left."

   He watches me intently. "And you don't remember anything? At all?"

   "Besides the accident, seeing you in a coma, and arriving in the driveway? No. Nothing. It's all a blur. But I promise, I'm not crazy."

   Peter squeezes my hand. "I believe you." He turns his wheelchair around, staring at his bedroom door. "How do you feel?"

   "In what sense?"

   He turns once more, looking back at me. "Mentally. Emotionally. Do you feel okay? Because I'm here if you need to talk. You know that, right? I'll always be here."

   I take a deep breath. "I was afraid you were going to die. Why did you try to shield me?"

   "It was a spur of the moment decision," he says. "All I thought about was keeping you safe. My only concern was making sure you lived."

   "Why? I’m only your sister."

   He knits his eyebrows. "Only?"

   "Football is your passion, and-"

   He holds up a hand. "I’m going to stop you right there. If you’re suggesting that I should value football over my family, you’re wrong. If I had to choose between football and my family, I wouldn’t pick football. I always play football for myself, but you don’t know how much it means to me seeing you and Mom in the stands. There are guys who don’t have that. Their family doesn’t watch them play, but you and Mom are always there."

   I look away from my brother.

   "I know that my dream of being in the NFL is over, but there are things more important to me than a game."

   "You didn’t always think that," I say.

   He sighs. "After Father died, I began to see things differently. I honestly wish I had seen things differently before, but better late than never, I guess."

   "What do you mean?"

   "Football is temporary. Family is forever. My family is irreplaceable and priceless. My career would’ve ended sooner or later anyway. I may not be able to play football like normal anymore, but at least my little sister is alive."

   "But you’re paralyzed. You’re disabled."

   "I’d rather be disabled than dead. It’s going to take a lot more than a car accident to kill me," my brother jokes. His tone becomes serious. "I knew the risks when I decided to shield you. Even if I hadn’t shielded you, I may have been paralyzed anyway. There are no guarantees."

   "Which still would’ve been my fault-"

   "But chances are you would’ve been dead had I not," Peter interrupts.

   "Mom told you?" I ask.

   "Reluctantly, but I was able to force it out of her. That’s why you were apologizing so profusely, wasn’t it?"

   "If I would’ve let you drive, this might not have happened. My actions led to your actions which led to you being in a wheelchair." I sigh. "I should’ve died in the crash."

   Peter watches me with caution. "You aren’t responsible for my actions, whether or not they stemmed from an accident that occurred while you were behind the wheel. I made my choice then, and if I had to do it all over again, I’d make the same decision. I’d rather be disabled and still have my sister than be disabled and grieving."

   "I can’t believe you’re finding positives about this."

   "It’s better than dwelling on the negative. I’ve been through that. For the past five months. I’m tired of dwelling. I want to live now. The accident is in the past. What’s done is done and there’s no changing it. I could focus on what could’ve been instead of what could be, but what’s the point?" I shrug. My brother keeps his eyes on me. "Are you sure you’re alright?"

   I nod. "I'm okay now. Really. I just wish I knew how. But I'm fine. I'm happy. I'm content."

   He seems to sigh in relief. "Good. I'm glad to hear that." He stares at a stack of books on his floor. "You missed the rest of the school year, by the way. You'll probably have to repeat junior year."

   "Probably. But I'll be fine."

   His face is once more full of concern. "You'll be able to drive?"

   I wince. "I'll probably just ride a bike for a while. Skip the wheel for now. At least until I'm ready. Right now, I don't trust myself. And you? What are your plans for senior year?" A sudden thought comes to me. "Wait." I do the math.  "It's May?"

   Peter nods. "Yeah. You were missing for five months. I was getting worried we wouldn't be able to celebrate your seventeenth birthday with you. I thought you wouldn't come home. Like I said before, I was worried that you had jumped off a cliff."

   I sigh. "I missed your eighteenth birthday. That's just great. I'm such an amazing sister, aren't I?" I ask sarcastically.

   "It's okay. You didn't miss much. You didn't even really miss anything at all. I woke up in February. We didn't even celebrate my birthday on my birthday. Besides, you were gone. It's fine." He points to my room, which is just across from his. "You'll find your room is exactly how you left it. Mom refused to believe you were dead, so she didn’t move anything." He exits his room, heading toward the living room. He looks over his shoulder at me. "And Emma?"

   "Yeah?"

   He smirks. "You're an amazing sister, even though you annoy me and worry me by disappearing for five months." He leaves me sitting on the edge of his bed.

   "Peter?" I ask him.

   He looks back at me. "Yeah?"

   "Thank you."

   He narrows his eyes. "For what?"

   "For shielding me. For always being there even when I don't listen to you." I look down. "And I'm sorry. I know you forgive me, but it'll take me a little longer for me to forgive myself."

   I look up. Peter stares at me, his face visibly inscrutable, but I know what he's thinking. He wants to convince me that it wasn’t my fault, but he doesn’t, knowing I wouldn’t believe him.

   I walk out of his room, entering mine, trying to begin anew. 

---

When I return to school a week later, there’s a boy standing in front of the lockers. He has cadet gray eyes and short, side-swept chocolate brown hair. He looks vaguely familiar, but I don't think I've ever met him before. He keeps looking around as if he's lost.

I approach him. "Are you new?" I ask.

   He turns his head toward me. His eyes are wide as he pulls his sleeve over his right arm, hiding a few bruises and scars that tarnish his otherwise perfect skin.

His voice is resonant. "No, but this is my first time coming back to school since I left two years ago."

   "Why'd you leave?"

   He shrugs. "Personal reasons. My mom isn’t all there and my dad is in jail, but he wasn't when I left. Actually, to be honest, I don't remember the last two years. I don't even remember how or when he was arrested, but that's not important. What's your name?"

   "Emma Whittaker."

   "Nice to meet you, Emma. My name's Thomas. Thomas Custer. Can you help me find my classes? I forgot the layout of the school."

   "Of course," I reply. I don't know why, but I feel as if this boy is special. I have an affinity for him. Maybe one of these days I'll figure out why. Maybe I won't. I don't know, and I don't particularly care. All I know is I'm doing fine. Everything will be okay. I'll make it through this. I can make it through anything if I just don't lose hope.

© Alexandria K. 2021

__________________________________________________

So that's my story. It was a very long process editing and re-writing this. I've found that descriptions are the bane of my writing existence, especially when it comes to short stories.

For anyone who doesn't know, wheelchair football is a real sport and even has its own league that was founded in 2020 by Move United (a non-profit organization that is dedicated to parasports among youths and adults with physical disabilities; it's a merger of the companies Adapted Sports USA and Disabled Sports USA), called the USA Wheelchair Football League. This project was in partnership with the NFL, and is currently playing in Chicago, Los Angeles, Phoenix, and Kansas City, Missouri.

In case it wasn't clear enough, Emma exits the bus at the moment she does because she needs to know her brother is alive and doesn't blame her, no matter how much she blames herself. The driver is meant to be an allegory for hope. The moment the driver looks at Emma, she feels as if she needs to leave, though she doesn't know why.

This is how the bus works. Depressed people who are at their lowest points board the bus, and the moment the driver looks at them, passengers feel the urge to leave. They disembark and find they are exactly where they need to be. This information about the driver wasn't a detail that was included in the original urban legend, but I decided to include it to fit what I wanted to do.

Thomas exits the bus at the moment he does because his dad was arrested, leaving him free from his abusive home life.

As for the other passengers who rode alongside Emma and Thomas, their stories aren't included here. The main reason I didn't include them is because I wanted the story to leave a sense of mystery. Also, the rest of the passengers' stories weren't relevant to Emma's. I will include what happens to the other passengers here.

The little girl (I envision her name being Chelsea), disembarks and is adopted by her aunt and uncle who had been looking all over for her (she was missing for 2 months).

The widower has a pretty bittersweet story, all things considered. I imagine that when he boarded the bus, he was already in his 90s. The night after he disembarks, he passes away peacefully in his sleep, being reunited with his wife and daughter. He was missing for four years.

The man who lost his job exits the bus and almost immediately finds a job to provide for his family. He was missing for two weeks.

I don’t know what happens to the nineteen year old girl. I envision that she has some form of a happy ending. She ends up with someone who actually loves and cares about her, but I don’t know any details.

I also don’t know what happens with the World War II soldier. He’s not a veteran. He’s been on the bus the longest. He’s been on the bus since the conclusion of the Second World War in 1945. That means that if this story took place in 2021 (I don’t know when it takes place), he’d be a passenger on the bus for 76 years.

The scents of the bus are exclusive to each rider. For Emma, a calming scent is lemon (which is the same for me). I think the scent that calms Thomas the most is cinnamon and pumpkin, almost exactly like those pumpkin spice candles that are always in stores in autumn near Halloween and Thanksgiving.

The reason that's the scent that calms Thomas is because I envision that his father didn't allow him anywhere except home and school. However, once Thanksgiving break came around, his grandma would pick him up from school and he would stay at her house for the duration of the holiday break. His father didn't like this, but he never stopped them.

I imagine that Thomas' grandma picked him up immediately after he got off from school, not allowing time for Thomas' father to pick him up. During Thanksgiving Break, Thomas' grandmother would make pumpkin pie and things like that, hence why pumpkin spice is a calming scent to him. It was the only time of the year where he could be safe from his father and not have to be at school.

As far as what the other riders smell while they're passengers on the bus, I cannot tell you. I think lavender would be one, as would coconut, rose, and potentially even the scent of banana (like those scratch and sniff stickers), but as far as which scent belongs to which passenger, I have no clue. There are some things even the author doesn't have the answers to.

That's it for this post! I hope you enjoyed it!

This is actually the first short story I've finished, and I'm pretty proud of it.

Until next time,

Lexi K🖌