Twenty years ago

You’re gonna be fine. Think about something else. Anything else. You need a distraction, something to keep your mind off it….

“Son. You okay?”

Tristan barely turned to glance at the man in the aisle, but even that was too much. Pain radiated across his back and ricocheted down his spine. He closed his eyes, digging his fingers into his knees. Nausea swept through him and he had to force air through his nose until he could haul back the urge to vomit.

Nope, wasn’t going to happen. After everything, there was no fucking way he was going to hurl on the bus.

Someone jostled the seat next to him. On his next inhale, Tristan registered smoke and mint and mothballs. His stomach protested and Tristan felt sweat slick his shirt to his skin. Shit, that wasn’t helping.    

“Son?”

Something tapped his knee. Tristan pried his lids open and, vision still hazy, spotted a gnarled finger hovering over his leg. “Yeah?” he groaned. Fuck, even talking hurt. When the hell were those painkillers going to kick in?

“You sure you’re doin’ okay? You look greener than a baby bird that just fell outta the nest. And I don’t want vomit all over my shoes. Three hours is a helluva long time to smell like sick, and you know you can never get the stink out.”

“I’m, uh, fine. Yeah.” Tristan shifted, wincing when the rough fabric of the seat caught the bandage sticking up from the back of his shirt. He sucked in a sharp breath. The old man narrowed his eyes.

“You’re lyin’, son. You’re nowhere close to fine. Don’t let this”—he swept his hand across his weathered face and well-worn shirt and mis-buttoned sweater—“fool you. I got eyes in my head, same as anybody else. And I’ve seen a lot in my time. I know what a broken man looks like. And you are falling apart right in front me. Literally.” The stranger pointed at the dressing on his neck. It was stiff and Tristan guessed the once-white bandage was stained dark red.

The old man’s eyes swept across him and Tristan vaguely wondered if he should be nervous. His head wobbled and he shook the thought away. No. This guy couldn’t hurt him. Not when the damage had already been done.

“Son, how old are you?”

“Why do you care?”

“Just answer an old man. You don’t want me dyin’ of curiosity, do you?”

“Sixteen,” Tristan muttered, his tongue starting to feel swollen and heavy.

“You had me fooled. You got the height of a man, kid. But you’re still a boy.”   

“Hmmm,” was his only answer. A pleasant sort of numbness was creeping across his skin. Finally. Tristan tracked it, his unfocused eyes scanning the almost-empty bus as his brain catalogued the loss of feeling in his back, his shoulders, his neck. Then his arms, and fingers. His legs, too. Thank god, they finally stopped shaking. Then his feet slowed, his toes giving up the uneven rhythm they’d been tapping out on the sticky metal floor.

When the man poked him again, Tristan saw his leg sway but didn’t feel a thing.

“Someone gave you the good stuff, huh? You’re gonna be dead to the world before we’re outta the city.”

Fuck, yes. That’s what I want. To close my eyes and forget it ever happened. To forget that she sent me away, and that it hurts to breathe, and that I can’t go home….

“Well,” the old man said, settling in. “You sleep. I’ll be here. Riding this baby all the way to the end. I’ll keep my eye on you, kid. Don’t you worry.”

Tristan curled into the seat, his head sliding towards the old man’s shoulder as he pulled his knees into his chest. He didn’t fit and he’d hurt like hell when he woke up, but what did it matter? Everything was different now. He needed to learn to live with the pain, to find a way to cope. To survive.

This was the first step. She’d told him where to go, what to do. How to hide. She’d insisted he stay away until it was safe. He had a bag of clothes, cash for food, instructions from the doctor, a bottle of pills and a stack of clean bandages.

Tristan drifted towards sleep and was grateful to the stranger sitting next to him. The old man’s sweater was scratchy against his cheek and Tristan would probably smell of smoke by the end of the trip, but the other man’s warmth was a comfort. His company a solace. And there, on that bus, almost entirely alone, in the middle of the night, that’s what he needed. So desperately.

He was a child. And unprepared, regardless of the supplies hastily packed in his bag. There was no way Tristan could’ve known it would be years before he’d feel those things again.

Years before he’d feel anything at all.