I’ve been sitting here on this same cold metal bench for hours. The bus that makes rounds at this stop has come and gone many times with people getting off and on. I’ve spent all day people watching, as they do the same to me. I see the look in their eyes as they take me in. I know that I’m not at my best, hell I’m far from it. However, due to my appearance, my torn and dirty clothes, my greasy and unkempt hair, everyone is looking at me with disgust, a look I welcome. Everyone looks at me that way except the bus driver who after each time he passes, his face shows more questions than the last, that questioning look that I welcome.
I’m sure it won’t be long until he has me removed. That knowledge doesn’t cause me to stand up and head towards my final destination though. In fact as he pulls away again, I take my frozen hands and try the zipper that won’t zip one more time. When that fails as I knew it would, I put my book close to my chest and wrap the sweater as I tight as I can get it and think of what needs to be done. How is it that when I finally have a chance to do what is right, I am sitting here questioning if doing what is right is worth the risk. I close my eyes and fight the battle raging inside me. I am remembering what it is that I’m holding and how many lives it could change even if it means opening every wound I’ve ever had and possibly not getting the justice I seek.
Each page in this book has been years in the making. Each picture represents one of the people who have etched away a piece of my soul. Those people chipping away one after the other leaving me this shell of a person I am now. The countless colors match a piece of the puzzle that is me, that is Quinn. The many different shades tell my story, tell my history and will define my future.
These pictures show a blurred memory, one that I wish I could forget. I have tried to forget them. I was able to forget enough that they were just shadows of a memory. However, right when the images were ready to part from me for good, I started to draw them with anything that was near. They aren’t memories I wanted to keep. If I never thought of those days again it would have been too soon, but no matter how many times I tried to fight the urge to purge them on paper, I failed. As the memories blurred however, the faces stayed focused. I don’t draw their faces. I don’t need to. While I look at those blurred photos, I try to remember what I focused on the first time. So when the memories flash back like the nightmare they are, I can again focus on what was in the background. It doesn’t do any good to dwell on the rest.
The first few pages are dark and smudged, not only because the pages have been through hell and back. Not because they have been folded over and over. These were drawn with dirt, with coal, and with tears. They hardly resemble anything to anyone but me. I can look at each page and see it all again. I can feel it all again. I can smell and taste it all again. So as I think about that first page, the one that has no physical pain but heartache and fear attached, I can smell the popcorn, feel the cool air, and see the movie that was playing when I was taken. Since I was so young, and had never practiced my art it shows just two black and brown smudged curtains on the sides. Representing the movie theater I was in. I thought that maybe now that I’m older and more experienced that I should redo the earlier pictures before turning this book in and doing what I should, however, I don’t have the heart or the strength.
As I mentally flip through each picture I remember how and what I went through to make each page just that much better than the last. When I spent days in the dark I would practice drawing what was next in the air with my finger. I’d picture each line of the room that I was to draw next. There were times if I was a good girl and didn’t fight they would give me a crayon. Never a pencil, they wouldn’t give me anything sharp. One Christmas I was given a set of 8 Crayola crayons and 5 pieces of paper. The things that I was expected to do because of the gift was almost worth it or so I was brainwashed to think. After a while the tears had dried, my tear ducts ached to drain once more but there would be no tears. No more tears would be staining my pages.
As I got older, I was able to bargain. Not something I’m proud of but when you live in hell you have to embrace the situation and figure out a way to get a cup of ice water. My ice water was my book. I had it taken from me twice. They were never able to decipher what was in it to understand how important it is and how much harm it could do them. I was able to gain it back one way or another.
“Ma’am are you trying to go somewhere?”
My eyes spring open; I’d swear they weren’t closed but a few minutes. However, my eyes lock on to the bus driver so it must have been at least 40 minutes. That is how long it takes for him to return to this stop. His face is full of concern as he waits for me to respond.
I open my mouth unsure of what I am to say. Yes, there is somewhere I need to be, somewhere I need go. Yet is now the time? Before I can talk myself out of it, I nod.
“Is it on my route miss? If so I’ll take you so you can get out of this cold. You won’t have to pay a fare this time.” He whispers the last. No one is around but he is worried someone would take advantage or turn him in for his kindness.
When I finally do stand, it’s not because I’ve decided now is the time. It’s not because I’ve come to the conclusion that waiting isn’t going to make it better. No, I stand because this is the first man that I can remember in the longest time, that has shown me kindness and without any hidden evil behind his eyes. I couldn’t deal with him getting into any trouble over me. I follow him onto the bus. I sit up front right behind him and watch him in the mirror. He glances back a few times but doesn’t say anything. I take the small amount of time I have before my stop to observe him. His shaggy hair is starting to grey. His beard as messy as his hair and stained yellow from what can only be years of tobacco use. His uniform tight and fading from overuse and weight gain. On the left on his chest is a name tag with John written on it.
I see my stop coming and wish that I could just ride around with John all day. What a thought when I’m fleeing from many Johns. I pull on the cord indicating my stop and he looks at me with even more concern as he pulls the bus to stop in front of the police station. Afraid to say anything I just nod my thanks and climb off. I don’t pause, I don’t try to talk myself out of what is about to happen. John made it possible for me to get here; it’s a sign if there are such things. It means I am where I am meant to be.
I walk through the doors of the precinct. I watch the officers doing their jobs, the accused in different stages of stating their case. I go up to the first woman officer I can find, not that I don’t trust the men, well, yeah that’s why. She looks up from her desk, clearly taken back from what she sees in me.
“Can I help you?” She inquires, tentatively.
I clear my throat and not for the first time I second guess what it is I have done. I pull out my book and sigh before starting.
“My name is Quinn Phillips and this is my kill book.”
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 