The Trip

Jack fumbled through his backpack with a vengeance. ‘Damn.’ He had left his phone in his parent's car before they dropped him off. The bus begins to leave. His search, however, remained unfettered, for something, anything of minor entertainment value. His fingers continued to crawl through the black hole that was his bag, until they felt a spine. Of a book. Not his own. A diary sketchbook, to be exact. Chronicled from two years ago, whose content which, though once known, had led to a morbid fascination bordering on the unexplained, as he still didn’t quite know its author nor why the things were written in the ways they were. It’s content he had since avoided like the plague. But even this was better than what he otherwise may have to do. He finds neither pencil nor eraser. ‘Damn.’

And now, amidst his peripheral, dwell constellations of flashing cameras, as his classmates begin to document every stupid and mundane thing they do. Jack doesn't have his phone, oh no, he may now have to socialize. A brutal, unforgiven torture he had little taste for, despite his love for the macabre. He melts into the used and dusty fabrics of his seat; the old creaking of unoiled gears and sprinting wheels of the archaic bus flood the ambient silence that only kids on their phones fathom to conjure. He clutches the book, almost protectively, afraid its pages may be caught in the crossfire of gleaming lenses.

A trip. First year of high school and this is what they do. A trip. Consisting of all the freshman students and their evermore depressed and underpaid teachers. Some of his classmates were already tripping though, at the far end of the bus one could expressively tell who were using and who were abusing. A line of jocks popping pills like cereal, exclaiming time and time again that, ‘These edibles ain’t shi-.’ in barely audible whispers which Jack had grown accustomed to hearing.

Jack, near fed up with his company began to ever so slightly pry open the black tome he held betwixt his pale fingers. His eyes widening in anticipation. His neighbours' eyes widened as though in response, keen on learning whatever Jack desired to relearn or discover. Curiously, he speaks, ‘What’cha reading?’ He closes it unenthusiastically, as his eyes flutter shut. He winked a glimpse of the first page. An image now reignited within his exhausted mind.

Jack was too lost in thought to acknowledge his question, or even care. He was tired too, not so much from the days unfortunate turn of events. No. Oh no. He didn’t sleep. And, well, now he can’t. Now he must eventually reply to this guy's question or risk social ostracization.

A cacophony of static sound soon swept over heads and bags, seats and ears. As though divine intervention, the phones began to slowly lose their spark, and die. No one seemed to bring a power bank and so their lights withered like flies. Silence returns, for a moment.

The occasional bag of chips being thrown over head and the brief yet abrupt cries of those around him fill him with dread, as he may have forgotten other things prior to packing, as he was mildly hungry too. The ghastly image of the first page now, once again, lived rent free in his minds peripheral. A sketch gruesomely carved with what could have only been blood and excrement. It smelled as vile as the day he first found it, two years ago. His nose stung with odours undying.

He felt a finger poke his arm. He jumped awake. ‘You feeling alright?’ Jack looked over at the kid to his side, the only hint to his age being that he was in the same bus, a freshman, with hearing aids and overly bulbus glasses attached to the physique of a toddler. His eyes magnified, near bulging out of his head with an almost childish curiosity.

‘I’m just tired-‘

‘WHAT-?’

The glasses kid spoke louder as a distant shout tore through both their words. They looked back to find a fight break out from a mesh of moving bodies and crying lips, ‘FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT-‘ like some sort of war chant. The fighters were on the seats at the very end of the bus and both held the other by the collar, itching for a fight, which is what it seemed like until Jack saw them clearer. The smaller one clung onto the others collar for dear life as the bigger kid held him up. ‘YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH DRUGS BRO?!’ ‘Yo wat- ‘

The jock was clearly out of his mind, his excessive indulging of narcotics had melted his brain, his eyes rearing to pop out of their sockets, and his hands literally itching for a fight. His lips were dry and chapped and he mumbled inaudible mayhem under his intoxicated breath.

The larger kid slung his arm back to punch, like an engine piston about to explode under its pressure. And so, it did-

Crunch.

The kid attempted to dodge, but slipped over an empty bottle of pills, tripping.

The fist embed itself neatly, with the precision of a needle, and the weight of a bus, cracking his jaw and silencing any screams with intention of exclamation. Trapping his words under the collapsed mound of broken skin and bones which were once his lower jaw.

‘Do you even lift bro?’, grinning.

‘Hmmmmmm!!!’

The chanting stopped. And the bus continued to a slow. Even the bully seemed frazzled, dropping the poor child to the dirty floor. He spat blood, spewing through his teeth, a dam on the verge of collapse. And then came the screams, accompanied by the pitter patty of raining teeth, and slopping sludge. Blood painted every corner of the bus. Puke and verbal excrement cascaded the isolated and confined walls of the solitary vehicle.

Jacks' attention was directed to that first page, his jaw hung open as he realized what was drawn. He was bewildered, surprised, confused, as that first page was the splitting image of that child's broken jaw. Its’ ghoulish aroma identical to the fresher bloods and filth which now inhabited the airs.

They reached their destination, wherein but one scream managed to compensate for the overwhelming silence.

The driver stared in horror as teachers spewed out of their hidden cars amongst the greenery of their campsite, dropping their crudely drawn and overly colourful welcome signs. This must be the site, thought Jack, desperately trying to ignore the frantic wailing that was dragged past his feet.

Soon an ambulance, and then silence. The bully was dragged out of the bus into the parking lot and Jack finally slept, collapsing in his chair, clutching his closed book with a morbid clarity and calm.