• Ollie Horsfall

Halfway Home




It’s always so late when I get on the bus. Work doesn’t end ‘til midnight and I have to lock up usually. Tonight I had no less than three idiots try to punch me. Three. I’m not the kind of person who does well with conflict. More of a talker. A diplomat. Of course negotiating my way around a fist is never a joy, but it usually works out and sometimes I even get a drink.


The bus is particularly late and I get on, not thinking much of it. It’s the driver, me and some woman on the phone to, what I can only imagine to be, newly established ex.


“…you said you loved me… How could you just go and shag some slut…”


It always comes to something when even the bus driver on a night bus decides to pipe up.


“Would you shut up!”


I sat there, arm on the very narrow sill of the window and my eyes began to drift. I had no interest in the pair of them until she walked past my seat right up to the driver and banged so hard on the glass of his door that it smashed. Chain reaction and wham bam, we slam right into the wall of some poor person’s lovely home. I hit my head, I could hear the ex now, shouting, but I was gone.


I wake up, no blue lights, no noise at all really. Nearby cat wanders past and looks unconcerned. I hate cats. Don’t understand the internet’s obsession. I stand up, I feel woozy but I’m fine really. Something on my head feels warm and I lift my hand to touch it. Blood, maybe, I can’t see too well.


I hear her moans. I walk towards the wrecked front. Is she injured? I call out.


“Are you alrigh’?” I don’t get my T out, but that’s not so strange. I’m a fan of missing consonants.


She cries. The driver is no-where to be seen. Front window seems to have disappeared too. I kneel, feel my way forward and I feel her sat there, cradling something. Her arm, her knee…?

She’s holding something solid in her hands and I’m finding it harder to talk now, I’m woozy, more warm stuff from my head. It hurts.


I reach out for what’s in her hands and I hear it crying. I hear a voice suddenly. Male. It sounds so far away, but maybe it’s rescue. No, that can’t be it, no blue lights. Just one silver light. In her hands.


She’s still crying, her leg is twisted the wrong way. The voice is so far away, but I hear her.


“You’re such a bastard.”


Her ex is shouting down the phone. I wonder if she even realises she has a broken leg. Seems like her heart has taken more damage.


Blue lights, more voices. Parts of the driver on the road. Grievous head injury. Catatonic girl.


A punch to the face doesn’t seem so bad now.

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