Thirteen Years Old

My Grandma has died.

I was awoken at 6 AM to the news of her passing. My Aunt and Uncle had come to visit in America, and they were all sad that they got the news of her passing.

She was hit by a car on the side of the road, and the driver was never found.

My Aunt and Uncle left immediately for their home country, and I went upstairs, to my mothers room, and laid on the naked mattress on the floor. It was given to me as my Aunt and Uncle borrowed my room, and I was too lazy to put a sheet on it.

I quickly passed out, as I had barely gotten any sleep from the night before.

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Everything is blue, and I panic.

I know that it is now Time To Die.

Me, and many children I don’t recognize are on a bus. We drive up the winding road, towards the top of the Shenandoah Valley. I hate this road. It terrifies me. It winds, around and around in a circle,higher and higher, dizzying, like an amusement park ride.

I hate amusement park rides.

The bus starts to speed up, which is not unusual, but soon it starts to swerve, the closer it gets to the top. Sudden panic breaks out.

All the unrecognizable children, their warped face and similar hair start screaming, and then I start screaming, because if everyone else is screaming why aren’t I?

Soon their faces all start to look the same, except for the difference of gender. They are all blue, in various tones, the boys with shorts ear length haircuts, the girls with hair down to their waists.

I was never scared until they became scared.

Next they started fighting.

Punching each other, trying to rip each other to shreds, clawing at the face. The children had no problem killing their brethren. There could only be one, now that they all looked the same.

No room for differences.

No exceptions.

I cry and clutch the top of the grey bus seat. I’m sitting in the second to last seat on the right side, my usual spot whenever I ride the bus. I look out the back door, trying to find escape before they turn on me next.

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I decided taking my chances, rolling down the mountain was better being stuck in there.

I grab the emergency exit, but it doesn’t open. The handle won’t even turn. I am stuck here, forever, with these horrid children, choking and spitting on each other, saying unintelligible noise.

No real language comes out of their mouth, except for The Mumbles.

I have heard The Mumbles before, a few times, but this time it was terrifying as they all did it at once, and I had no reprieve from the noise. The Mumbles would start, and then turn into screeching and screams.

The children would not die.

They would hit each other as hard as possible, cracking skulls against each other's head, kicking in the face, pulling fingers and hair. I did the only thing I knew how to do in that moment, when I had wasted all other options.

I asked for help from A Trusted Adult.

I climbed over the grey plastic seats. They made a strange sound, the crinkling of plastic pushing up against my jumper.

I realize, in that moment, that I am small again. I am wearing my yellow jumper, with a flower shirt, pink shoes, and my curls. I wore the outfit, the same one in the picture my father hangs in his house, the one where we went to Walmart together to get our photo taken.

I remember the day, and how special I felt.

I remember then, that someone had painted my photo, and sold it.

My face now hangs in a strangers house, and now I no longer feel special.

The small me cries as I am desperate to feel special again. I Want Attention, but the bus driver ignores me as I call for help, screaming that the children are coming to get me.

They are not satisfied with maiming each other, next they want me. I’m in the front seat once the children all turn to look at me, their eyes glowing blue, and I know that they will Hurt Me, Again, Like The Others.

“Please, stop the bus,” I scream.

The bus driver turns, and it is my grandmother.

I know it's her, even though it doesn’t look like her. It’s mouth is outstretched in a giant smile, inhuman, the points of the mouth stretching farther and farther as she looks at me.

Her short stubby fingernails were replaced with long claws, her hands too big, the knuckles protruding and boney on the long gangly fingers. Her old hands were knotted and curved, the pockmarks more numerous than the stars in the sky.

The demon’s curly black hair and pointy ears, it’s brown skin and beady black eyes were not my grandmother, but for whatever reason, some part of me kept telling me it was.

With a rapid twist, and a devilish grin on her face, the bus careens of the road, in the air, and soars into the valley. I close my eyes and prepare for impact, but it never comes.

We never crash.

We fall forever, through the sky, the screams of all the children, coming out in one long wail, and they go up and down, up and down, like a roller coaster ride.

I hate amusement parks.

I wish to finally crash, but it never comes. I cry, my tears falling onto the front window, as the bus is vertical, dropping through the blue empty void of sky.

“Stop,” I whisper. “Make it stop.”

The bus drops, and I prepare for pain as the window approaches. The last thing I see are the window wipers, and the reflection of my grandmother in the window, excited that we will all Die Together.

We do.