Strangers

I'm not sure how this came about. It's what I get for staying up too late...

Strangers

The strange man was there again. He’d seen him three other times this week. The man never spoke, just hovered close by. He hoped the bus would come soon. He glanced at his watch. Seven minutes. Why did he always have to get places early? He didn’t like this man. He’d never gotten on the bus. He just stood there, waiting for it, it would seem. But he never got on. He was staring at him. It would be rude to not say hello.

“Hello, how are you?” he asked the stranger.

“I’m doing well. How are you?” came the reply with forced politeness.

“Doing well…” He searched for something else to say. The man was waiting for him to continue. His impatience showed only through his eyes. His dark, searching, impatient eyes. He swallowed hard before he spoke. “How is your day going?”

“It sucks. That’s why I’m doing so well.” The sarcasm was unavoidable. “It’s going well, what did you think, numbskull?”

“Sorry…didn’t mean to offend.” His fear was beginning to mount. Something wasn’t right. Not right at all. Something wasn’t right about this man.

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” But it wasn’t fine. He knew it. And so did the stranger who had offended him. “Don’t worry about it,” he said and walked away muttering to himself incomprehensibly.

Relief flooded through him. He felt emboldened by his retreat. “Little touchy…” he muttered.

“I heard that!” the man cried, turning around. His face expressed his rage. There was no need for words. “You think I’m deaf?” he asked, stalking back angrily to the place he was standing.

He backed away from the stranger. “Hey, hey, it’s okay…” he said with rising panic. “Look, calm down. I didn’t mean anything by it! I swear!”

“Oh, but you did…” he said menacingly, then under his breath, “And now you’ll pay…”

“No, please. I really didn’t! Oh…Oh God…No!” He couldn’t even run. He told his legs to. But they didn’t listen. No one ever did.

The bus pulled up and came to a stop.

He raised the knife and drove it into his chest.

A scream of agony rent the air.

He repeated the thrust.

He fell to the ground. “Didn’t…didn’t mean…to offend…”

He smiled “You are forgiven, my son.” He walked away, wiping the blood from the knife onto his coat.

He slumped over dead.

“What happened here?” the police officer asked.

The bus driver fought to keep her composure. “I couldn’t stop him… Stabbed himself, then smiled and said ‘You are forgiven.’”