I sat in the back of the bus, the already dim overhead lights flickering with every pothole and bump in the road. Even though I was the last person on the bus save the driver, I had my hood pulled low over my face, all but covering my eyes, exposing just the straight line of my nose and the full, wide blossom of my mouth.
Trouble at home, travel away, you say
"The road don't like me"
Travel away, travel it all away
The road's gonna end on me
The Yeah Yeah Yeah's song sounded distant and tinny in my beat up headphones, but I smiled bitterly anyway at the familiar lyrics. How truer could they be? I gazed past the scratched and carved windows of the bus, neon lights just ahead. Fangstasia, they advertised.
Now the strangers have caught on
And they're riding in the backseat
The driver's eyes flicked back to me in the rearview mirror for the umpteenth time silently begging me to get off.
The river's gonna wash all
Yeah the river it spoke to me
It told me I'm small
And I swallowed it down
My stomach growled, angry with hunger.
If I make it at all
I pulled the cord, signaling the driver to stop.
I'll make you want me
I stepped off the bus, duffle bag in tow, and stared up at the bright neon sign.
Fangtasia.