Grey

Well would you look at that! It's Friday again! Which means short story time:

The boy sitting across from me never stops fidgeting. By now I’m so bored that I count the number of times he does each quirk. Hair tugs: 5. Knee taps: 20. Finger cracks: 3. When he moves on to twist his bracelet tightly around his wrist I give up counting and look out the bus window.

The sky outside is the color of slate. The scenery is barren except for a few scraggly half-dead trees and endless road. I still can’t tell where we’re heading. I look down at my own bracelet, identical to the fidgeter’s except for the numbers that read: 1206.

We each have our own identification number bracelet. That and the bright orange jump suits expose us for what we really are. Prisoners.

A tall man in front of me stands up, even though the bus is still moving. The guards at the front and back of the bus clutch their batons, ready to fight.

“Sit down,” says one of the guards. The hand that grips his baton is white at the knuckles.

“Actually, I’d rather not,” says the prisoner. I hear a shuffling sound and see a gun in his hands, pointed at the guard who spoke.

The guards at the back of the bus tense and begin to move slowly towards the man with the gun, not willing to risk the life of an officer.

“Stop the bus,” says one of the guards. He sounds confident, but I can here the tremor in his voice.

They’re terrified of us. Everyone is. I know what they call us.

Murderers.

It stings that the word rings with truth, but they don’t know the whole story. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

“Put the gun down,” the chief officer says through clenched teeth. The prisoner takes a moment to reply.

“You,” he says, “Are going to let everyone on this bus go, or I am going to shoot.”

I can see the movement of the officer’s throat as he swallows. His dilemma is hard. Self-preservation, or the safety of the entire country, maybe even the world?

Self-preservation wins.

“Open the doors,” he says to the bus driver. Inwardly I sigh in relief. We were lucky, getting a bus with such weak willed officers. The ones on the other buses will not be so  lucky.

One by one, we file out of the bus.

I stand under the slate sky and will myself to feel the joy of my newfound freedom.

The joy does not come.