The List
It was a mundane Tuesday morning, which started as Tuesdays typically do, I boarded the bus at exactly 9:16 AM with a cup of coffee in hand. The grey-haired driver mumbled a good morning, she was an older woman, probably in her late 60s.
"Morning Greta," I said in passing, offering a tight smile and slight nod. This was all routine, same coffee, same time boarding the bus, same driver with the same greeting, and even the same seat. The cool leather brushed against my thighs as I slid into my spot, resting my head on the window before slipping in my earbuds. At least the audiobooks weren't always the same. My best friend had told me a while back that my dedication to routine was maddening, and she was probably right. Each day seemed more lifeless and devoid of color than the last. I strained to pay attention to the true crime novel rambling in my ear but my mind wandered to the scenery outside. A blur of Chicago passing by, some people rushing to their unknown destinations while others casually strolled on, so many lives that I'll never know anything about.
As we approached Bell Street, I gathered my messenger bag and slung it over my shoulder. The bus slowed to a screeching stop before the doors opened. Greta mumbled something else as I exited, and this time I couldn't find the energy to respond, not that she paid much attention. After a glance at my watch, the time read 9:34 AM, which meant I'd be exactly 1 minute late. The street that was usually buzzing with chatter was eerily quiet except for distant yelling.
"- you people think you know it all! You don't know anything!" A thin man stood in the middle of the street while cars honked, and passersby gathered on the sidewalks to watch. His thin, long brown hair clung to his scalp just as his battered and beaten clothes clung to him. His body resembled that of a skeleton, the notches of his spine peaking through the holes of his once-white t-shirt. With some more inaudible yelling, he thrust a cardboard sign up.
"They will come for us! They will come for us all! There is no escaping the sins we have committed!" Then he turned towards the direction I was standing, leaving me to fight the urge to gasp. Crimson streams leaked from his eyes as if his tears were blood, sliding over hollow cheekbones and dripping onto the pavement. With one last cry, he dropped to his knees before authorities pushed their way through to him, but even with him being drug away nobody moved an inch. The crazed man's last words ran through my mind over and over; death has awoken. The cardboard sign lay cast aside with writing almost too small to read. Cautiously I lifted it closer to see a list of names scribbled across it. Mine included.