The bus was crowded. All of the characters from my novel were crammed in the tiny seats, most of them still trying to change into their fighting costumes. The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air. I was chain smoking. Where was my ash tray? Oh, yeah. I don't have one anymore. I think there are still a couple back on our deck at home. Crap. I pulled out an old metal band aid box from my borrowed leather back pack, emptying the contents back into the pack. This will be war, after all. We might need band aids. The box should work for me.
Inhaling, I realize how much I needed this. Flicking the ashes into the band aid box, I have the sudden feeling that eyes are burning a hole in the back of my neck. "This can't be happening," I yell. "It's trite. It's happened too many times before!" Still, the feeling persists. I look around cautiously. Sure enough, my mother is seated behind me, glaring at my cigarette. Too late now, I realize with a sigh, and use the band aid box again, turning my back on her. I don't know how that feels to her, but I can guess. It doesn't feel good to me.
I still need to change my costume. Looking out the window I realize we're almost to the old meadow. The fight is going to start at dawn, and I'm too tired for this. What if I fall asleep? Something tells me I'm just not good enough for the task ahead. My head bows down. I haven't decided yet if I'm going to pray or cry.
The bus hits a rock and starts careening down a sharp incline. I'm the only one screaming when I suddenly wake up.
I guess I might as well start writing for the day. Fixation can be fascinating.