The King of Mars

This bus smells like burning shit.

That's a good sign, I thought sarcastically as I walked down the narrow aisle, towards a vacant seat in the back. The other passengers didn't seem to be aware of me as I stepped past them. I took the chance to glance at each of them briefly. A thin, middle aged black man rummaged through what looked like an overgrown purse, his forehead creased with worry. A young, freckly girl in a summery dress with curly, light brown hair that fell down her shoulders and chest stared absentmindedly out of the window. The voices of minuscule men and the muffled din of a guitar played from the wires hidden in her hair. An Asian guy sat in front of the seat I claimed, looking around and bobbing his head to an unheard beat, his lips silently mouthing the words to some song. Whatever each passenger was doing, the bus was nearly in perfect silence.

That suits me just fine. I could catch up on some sleep, since I was riding this bus to its last stop and hadn't slept properly in days. It sounds cliché, but I'm off to do some soul searching. I didn't even stop at home to risk seeing my old man and getting in a fist fight with him one last time. Didn’t even let him know I was going. I wanted this to be as easy as possible, which it was. From here, I'll make my own way. I, Christopher J. Sarno, will leave my mark on this world, however that may be.