Petal

The bus jumped and shuddered, striking another one of many potholes that were scattered liberally over the dull faded-black concrete and causing the passengers to jump almost in unison. Several unaware people grabbed reflexively onto the tarnished handrails fastened to the roof while others clung to the support poles of the same material. Those that were lucky enough to have gotten a seat were merely jostled to one side or the other, bumping shoulders with complete strangers in what had become a tradition in public transportation.

The seats on either side of him, always the last to be filled, were vacant but the motion of the bus did nothing to sway his body. He sat, rocklike and almost motionless, staring at the floor because to make eye contact with anyone might be considered hostile and there was no telling how many people on the bus disapproved of his very existence and wouldn’t mind any reason to rough him up a bit.

He rested his elbows on his knees and his hands were clenched in front of him. Despite the hour of scrubbing with sponge and grit-cleaner he could still feel the blood on his hands and the bits of skin that had been lodged under his fingernails. It had been weeks since his last episode and he had thought he was finally rid of the problem and gone out to celebrate. That had been his mistake:

The bar was packed with a mass of humanity but he moved easily through it like a bass trawler through algae that sat on top of the water. He was alone (he liked it that way) and tried to make his way as carefully as possible to a place near the back. Stools collapsed under his bulk (being seven feet tall and several hundred pounds of mostly muscle had it’s disadvantages) so he ignored any sort of seat and instead leaned against the wall with a beer that had been given to him by a wide-eyed blonde that was probably wondering if the myth about tall guys (with blue skin) was true.

He attracted stares; that much he was used to, but he felt that tingling in the back of his head that told him there was hostility coming from somewhere. When he reached his space on the wall, which was dutifully cleared by the crowd that saw him coming, he took a second to locate the source and wasn’t surprised to find it coming from a trio of men that looked like the spitting image of the redneck stereotype; dirty jackets, scruffy faces and tobacco stains almost everywhere. They were drinking beer and judging by the number of bottles on the table had been doing so for quite a while. Their eyes tracked unsteadily across the room until one finally settled on him again. He slapped his buddy, whispered something while pointing and they all had a raucous laugh.

They followed him as he left and cornered him as he turned a corner to try and get away.

He had tried to reason with them, keeping his hands in plain view and explaining that he was just out for a drink and didn’t want any trouble. They, of course, weren’t in the mood to listen and kept prodding him, forcing him to walk backward down the street.

One of them pulled a knife and lunged, opening a gash on his palm that oozed bright red blood over blue skin. He felt and saw his hand close into a fist and the world fade to black-

He was snapped out of his flashback by a tiny, slightly cold finger delicately running from his wrist to the first knuckle of his index finger. It caused him to snap his head up and come face-to-face with bright brown eyes, pigtails and a curious frown.

“Did that hurt?” ask the little girl innocently.

“Did what hurt?” he replied after a moment, his basso rumble causing several passengers to stare oddly at the giant man talking to a child.

“Your skin. Did it hurt when they painted it blue?”

He turned his hands over, staring at the calluses and wear-lines that had developed due to a life of manual labor.

“I dunno,” he said quietly, as if sharing a secret, “Did it hurt when they painted you pink?”

The girl giggled and gave a wide grin, “They didn’t paint me! I was born this way!”

“Well I was born this way,” he said matter-of-factly, returning her smile with one of his own.

“I like it! It’s pretty!”

At that point the girls mother had snatched her away, dragging her to a different corner of the bus and admonishing her about talking to strangers, especially ‘those kind of strangers’. The look on the mother’s face was plain enough; he was some sort of unspeakable monster because he looked different from everyone else. Different was dangerous. Different was wrong. She probably had a grandmother that didn’t like ‘colored folk’ either.

He rubbed his head, sighed and resumed staring at his feet. The bus continued to jolt it’s passengers in a strange sort of unison and he managed to catch the little girl telling her mother that ‘He’s not bad! He’s blue!’ before deciding to get off at the next stop, nevermind that it would make him late for work.

Damned if that kid didn’t scare him more than anything he’d ever come across and for the life of him he wasn’t sure why.

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