The Bus Stop!
Posted by: CCA on: December 13, 2011
It is an unreasonably cold winter night. I’ve waited over half an hour for a bus that promised to come but has yet to show. Sitting in the shelter, I realize why I bought a car and vowed never to catch a bus, even if my location for the day would be downtown, which is a ways away from my home.
Millia’s doll slips from her hand to be drowned in winter boots’ scum and snow puddles. “Eww,” she says, “but at least she’s not broken. She’ll be fine. Cause I rescued her.” Indeed this toy had been rescued, and thank goodness for it. She had broken her dolly two days ago and cried about it for an hour. This replacement doll was temporary while initial dolly gets fixed.
“Geez, the bus is sure taking a long time. Isn’t it?” Millia asks.
In the far right corner of the shelter a man coughs like he has been struck in the gut by a hyena, a hyena; Christ I can’t believe I just fancied the thought of a man being hit in the gut by a hyena. My imagination is beginning to drift off again– it’s seriously been going wild these days. Hell. I often catch myself dreaming about sex, which is normal, but lately I’ve been consumed by fairy tales, stories, elaborate ideas. Damn, I’ve been constructing tales and creating detailed empires in my head. Seriously. Ideas. Stories. I should start writing again.
It starts to snow; first lightly, then harder. I watch what had promised to be a beautiful night–curled by the fireside with my family–turn horrible, and there was nothing I could do. Everyone in the shelter begin to get restless, hissing their teeths like vampires waiting to suck blood.
A woman in her early twenties picks up her phone to begin cursing loudly. “It’s been over half an hour Jeremy! The idiot will not move anytime soon and I need to be back home at seven o’clock. Do you know what time it is? Come and pick me up, my time is of the essence!”
Indeed, time is of the essence. At least it is the most important thing to anyone alive, in this bus stop, at the moment. Everyone’s attention is geared at killing the bus driver, possibly hijacking the bus until they’ve reached their destinations. Millia looks up at me and asks, “why is it taking so long?”
The child is bored, it is definitely time to go.
Then a loud noise grasps all attention in the shelter. Outside, what seems to be a man holding a gun has a woman by the hair. My god he is holding a gun. In a split second he is joined by two other gentlemen, each holding their belt and a blade.
What in the devil is this?
The woman screams. In all my life I have never heard a sound so fierce and intimidating. So loud! She keeps screaming, and my ears tremble from the vibrations. It seems as if the world has stop and the walls within this shelter echo her cries.
It hurts to take my eyes off the scene but I do anyway, just for a split second, to make sure i’m not crazy and this is indeed happening before my eyes. Everyone stands still, dumbfounded.
I guess the fact none in the room made a sound took me off my guard. Still, I couldn’t make a sound. I couldn’t move. My eyes shifted from side to side to observe my surrounding.
One of the men rips the woman’s skirt off her waste, then proceeded to rip off her tights. Her screams, oh her screams. Christ. Even though the door to the shelter is closed and the damn heater wails like a cat in heat, I hear her scream and silently beg for them to stop.
But I still couldn’t open my mouth, could not utter a sound.
Then, I notice from my peripheral vision that a boy, must be in his early twenties, had began recording the event happening before us. His eyes are wide open as if his lids have been sewed that way. His mouth is also drawn apart as if he would have screamed if he could. The scene trudges on like the world has stopped, and everything unfolds in slow motion.
One of the men begin to rape her, while the others pass around her skirt as if it was a toy. Her screams intensify, it hurts to listen.
“What are they doing to her? Why is she screaming like that?” Millia screams. Looking around, she begins to cry. I stare into her eyes and find staring back an innocence that has just been defiled by the truth of what she might someday face. She can see it too, must have, because she starts screaming, “tell them to stop please.” Her cries intensify, simultaneously with the sounds of the woman being raped outside. I feel as if I’ve just stepped into the Gorgon’s hell. I begin to silently cry for her lost innocence and for the dolls that can never be fixed.
“Please make them stop! Make them stop! Make them stop!” Millia cries, and it must have affected all fifteen people or so standing in the shelter; we must have all felt the same way; saw the same thing; witnessed the same event. Like a choir responding to the conductor, everyone begins to dial at their handsets.
I try to console Millia as best as I could. But it is too late. The woman outside lays still. Blood flows from between her thighs like a sea parting land.
Finally, cop cars arrive on scene, and officers begin questioning everyone. “Did you see any faces?” “What were they wearing?” “Do you have a description of the guy?” “guys?”
We are flooded with questions but nobody seems to remember anything vital to their investigation. I don’t think I actually saw a face. Nobody remembers their faces. The recording remembers the rape, but not vividly. It all happened in the dark, so not even technology can capture the culprits.
But we know the victim, or at least what she looks like.
Some mixed girl, must be. Her skin tone is a brownish hue; her hair, a tint of blonde.
It is what it is.
After fifteen minutes, we are all sent home.
Ji-Ji.Guerrera 
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