11:11 When It Happened

He was bald. But only on the top of his head, each straight strand lying below the bald spot— grey and black, pushed up by his hardened hair cells. His headphones were sitting on top, black in sturdy plastic. He moved it every few seconds as if part of a ritual, as if his ears have moved position.

Then he turned his head, looking for something lost in the midst of the hustle and the bustle —perhaps he missed the way the buildings in the city all had the same colour, conjoined and set in stone, designed to be a direct replica of the other, his head returned, facing the front. He raised his hand to wave at the oncoming bus. It was as though, only the people who exist to him, were on a moving bus, as he was.

The wind clung to the aluminium cladded bus. Though the windows were closed, the chill could still be felt, eyes were boring through the back of his head, and he smacked it as though a fly landed.

Following an unwritten cue, there was a strange feeling in his stomach. There was a lady in the seat behind him, he wasn’t sure if she was there when he looked back at the path he rode, but she was there: still and relaxed. She was inches behind his head, he wanted to look again, but the speaker alerted the next stop.

…

In perfect annunciation, he repeated the words on the screen, of the street he was on. Then it clicked, it was sudden, he booked it down the stairs and charged through the exit towards the back of the bus; he was being followed.

He walked through the shadows of the wind, moving his head phones a few more times. As he sat down and waited, the bus did not drive off, a woman came stepping down. She wore a gown like nanny McPhee, a black plastic bag in her hand; he could hear the sound of the bag getting louder in his head. He could see it inhaling and exhaling.

She had something in that bag, something young.

He looked up in fear, he coward and squinted at the sight of this woman; she had needles sticking out of her face and drops of dried blood, trailing, creating bloody pathways to her cheeks and into her nose.

It was rude to complain about the choices of others, even more, to point them out.

‘Take it, it’s the head of my child. Her blood will keep you young.’

She walked towards the direction of where the bus took off, never looking back.

It was too much for him, his heart thumbed in protest, the stench only got worse. But his nose adjusted to the intoxicating, metallic serum. He took a different approach, he dug his hand inside. Against the palm of his hand he felt dry, cold skin and something wet. He cupped his hand and pulled it out and drank.