Chapter One – George
"Why is it so cold?" George exclaimed. It was the middle of summer yet he found himself for the fifth day in a row, walking home in the chilliest of winds from his job at the deli. At twenty seven years old, he wasn’t sure what had brought him to waste the past five years at such a dead-end job; one which didn’t even let him have the day off at Christmas. Instead, he’d always end up working the noon to 8pm shift, serving those people who forgot to buy more tomato sauce prior to their barbeque, or who didn’t foresee the popularity of the one bottle of soft drink they purchased.
He’d just finished such a shift and was making the long trek to the bus stop. Normally, he’d arrive, and end up waiting 30 minutes for the bus that was due an hour previous. Today though, the buses were on time and George was on the bus straight away. This made him uneasy; change wasn’t exactly something a man like him enjoyed, even a positive change like this. Because the buses were running on schedule, he ended up on bus 112, instead of his usual bus which had the faulty display and only ever displayed “Off Duty”. George took a moment to glance around, hoping he wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone, lest he’d have to make awkward conversation with them about how bad public transport is, or how odd the weather had been this week.
Luckily for him, the whole bus was, for the most part, empty. Towards the back was a scruffy middle-aged man, the sort that others avoid sitting next to for fear the alcohol-saturated air around him would suffocate them. George was that sort of person, so he was glad he’d sat down close to the front. The ride, though as bumpy as it could be, was going to be far less annoying without some irritable drunk yelling about how awesome his hometown is, spitting all over George in the process.
The bus was about to reach a traffic light, when suddenly the bus screeched to a halt, throwing George face first into the back of the seat in front of him. Rubbing his jaw and getting back to his feet, George turned to the bus driver, who was sitting straight up, fixated on something on the road. “What just happened?” George asked, shaking a little from the shock of the bus stopping.
”I think I hit that guy!” The bus driver who as George observed, wore a nametag with the name ‘Brian’ stuck on it, opened the bus doors and jumped up to go outside, “I’m sorry guys, but you need to get off the bus while we sort this out.”
”NO!” Came a shout from the back of the bus, and the drunk man crossed his arms stubbornly, staring straight at the front of the bus.
”Fine, stay inside then!” The bus driver sighed and waved his hand apathetically, “I have to check on the guy on the road.”
The drunk man got to his feet, yelled, “NO!” again, and ran outside waving a half opened bottle of vodka wildly. George shook his head, and joined them outside. By now, a small group of people had congregated to help the person on the road; a teenage boy with ginger hair. There was a large graze on his forearm and he appeared dazed, but was busy reassuring everyone he was fine. George knew he couldn’t do anything to help that everyone else wasn’t already, so he walked over to the sidewalk and have a cigarette.
Now, when it came to smoking, George tried to avoid it wherever possible. However, he always carried a pack on him for when he really needed it. Being he just finished an 8 hour Christmas shift at the deli, he really needed it. The barrage of customers he had to cope with inane questions and abuse over the fact that there was no salad dressing left when they clearly needed it right there and then.
Pulling out his lighter, George went to light his cigarette, only to have it knocked out of his hands by the drunken man from the bus. “YOU CAN’T DO ‘AT! DON’T YOU KNOW ‘AT FIRE IS DANGEROUSH? YOU COULD KILL US ALL!” He yelled as loud as he could at George, his gruff voice making pronouncing ‘that’ an impossible task for him. As the yelling continued with references to bushfires, flammable substances and issues from his hometown, George tried to shift, dodging the alcohol that splashed out of the bottle. Despite his best efforts though, most of it ended up on his shirt.
When the drunk finished his ranting, he paused and looked at George, “Wait, did you take my drink?” He demanded, pointing at the now drenched shirt.
”No, you spilled it on me,” George replied monotonously, the strong liquorice smell from the alcohol getting up his nose, “you were waving it around and it got everywhere.”
”NO! You took my drink! YOU BASTARD!” As his face got red with anger, some passers by pulled the drunk away from George and attempted to calm him down, in the end offering him a whole dollar to move on.
”Are you alright man?” One of them asked George with a worried expression on his face.
George was picking up his lighter from the ground which as his bad luck would have it, had ended up in a puddle of the alcohol which George reckoned must be sambuka or some other other strong cleaning fluid. “Yeah, I’m okay man. Just a little shaken, I’ll be good once I’ve had a smoke.”
George wiped the lighter on his shirt, and flicked it alight. Raising it to his lips, he lit a cigarette, taking a long drag. Out of nowhere, just as he was ready to take the lighter away from his lips, he jerked forward, a hit to his back knocking him.
”Hey guy, turns out he’s okay. I’m giving him a lift to his house, bu-” The bus driver didn’t have time to finish, as the hard pat on the back made George slip, and seconds later, he was engulfed in flames. George started jumping up and down screaming, hoping to god someone would help him. He fell to the ground in pain, still screaming as loud as his lung would let him. George could feel people trying to put him out, but the pain was too excruciating and this was little comfort for him; all that mattered was the burning. It hurt beyond recognition, and he wasn’t sure if it would ever stop; that he would never be able to stop screaming. He kept going as he felt his energy draining, until everything faded to black, and he finally stopped.
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