They say, write what you know. But what if you’ve written about everything you know, where do you go then? When it happened to me, I looked for a muse, something to inspire me.
I took a ride on the night bus. Its florescent lights lit up all its passengers. I took a seat at the back and waited.
I watched as anonymous people boarded the vehicle, sat in place, looking straight forward. I watched as anonymous people left.
One person stole my gaze, he wore blue overalls, covered in oil and grease. I wondered what he did today, wondered how his clothes got so smeared with filth, it almost looked like he was drenched in blood, maybe it was blood, it did look redder than oil. As he sat, he looked up at the circular mirror for the driver to inspect his passengers.
He looked straight at me.
A chill ran up my spine at the direct eye contact, and I came up with an idea. He was a serial killer masquerading as a mechanic. He’d just come from his last victim, but no-one noticed as the population of the bus assumed his attire was that of someone who fixed cars.
He averted his gaze, but I kept staring, wondering what he was thinking, what he was thinking next. I postulated he was going to leave the bus, go home and admire the trophies he obviously kept from his last venture.
I waited. I waited until I saw him reach for the stop button. I didn’t get up, I stayed in my seat. As the bus drew to a stop, he got out of his seat and left. I bided time until I saw he was sufficiently far enough away from the vehicle before I disembarked.
I followed him from afar, reveling in the fact he’d not seen me. Ideas flooded my mind. *What would happen if he saw me? Would he track back and do to me what he did to the other victims?*
But he didn’t see me. He didn’t see me as I followed him through the dimly lit streets. He didn’t see me as he entered his road and skipped up the steps to his house. He didn’t see me.
My heart thumped in my chest as I looked up at his house, the living room light illuminating. I took the new steps up to his door and took a deep breath.
The door opened.
The mechanic looked shocked.
“Didn’t I see you on the bus?” he said confused.
“Yes you did,” I replied.
Without thinking, I outstretched my hands and grasped his neck.
“What are you doing?” he pleaded, stumbling backward.
“Being creative,” I replied.
I have a new idea for a story…