At the bus stop, I noticed a woman talking to herself madly. I looked around to see who she was talking to. Nobody was there. She started talking to herself once more yelling along with raving louder and louder.
I wanted to grasp her throat and mouth with my bare hands. I wanted to suffocate her.
I then thought to myself that she must be some sort of nutter. I wondered in amazement if it was a dead husband or a conversation with “God” with whom she was speaking with by herself. To that inquiring I couldn’t tell you.
We both got onto the bus. I chose to sit next to her and listen on to her conversation. There were only nonsensical utterances here and there with no coordination worth mentioning. I wondered if I ever made it to her age if I would end up the same way eventually myself.
The bus was getting full. Too full. 37 bodies. Apparently I wasn’t the poor only throwaway portion of the populace in the city either. I felt like I was in a cattle trailer where all of us human livestock throwaways were herded up together in taking us to our destinations on the route. The route was that of the number 23.
The room was full of tension, anger, despair, and depression with the single raving woman still talking to herself forty minutes later in the background.
I imagined an angry armed drug addict hobo coming on board with a pistol killing us all with the lone raving woman still talking to herself shouting in the background.
The massacre would make all the front pages or the top television news rooms for weeks on end I’m sure where after the popularity faded we would all be forgotten and nobody would really care.