Destitution's Defender
The city lights flickered dimly as the bus trundled by. Empty, but for two people: a young man gripping the wheel, a baseball bat his closest companion, and an older woman, dressed in rags, sleeping in the back of the bus. The young man's eyes scanned the sidewalks lining the streets, searching through the shadows. He stopped beside a bench, and got off of the bus to help the older man huddled there into the little warmth and shelter his bus could provide.
For hours, the bus patrolled the streets, no longer empty. As it passed below the Empire State Building, the young man slammed on the brakes. Hidden in the tall shadow, he saw a girl, her clothes half torn off, struggling to free herself from the grasp of a burly, middle-aged man.
The world blurred as he darted off the bus, baseball bat in hand. In what felt like seconds, he climbed back into the bus, leading the girl gently by the hand. As she sat down, he handed her a blanket, a tear in the corner of his eye. She refused to meet his eyes, curling under the blanket in her seat.
He stood there for a second longer, a hand half-stretched towards her, before it fell as he walked back to his seat. Replacing his bat in its honored place, he glanced back out the window of the bus. Mangled on the ground, he saw the other man's body, painted red and black. A wide grin split his solemn features, even as tears trickled down his cheeks.
Reaching over, he pulled out a small notepad and pen. Flipping through, he turned to the last page, which was filled with tally marks. His hand shook as another mark joined all the rest.
Twenty-one times he'd been too late.
For hours, the bus patrolled the streets, no longer empty. As it passed below the Empire State Building, the young man slammed on the brakes. Hidden in the tall shadow, he saw a girl, her clothes half torn off, struggling to free herself from the grasp of a burly, middle-aged man.
The world blurred as he darted off the bus, baseball bat in hand. In what felt like seconds, he climbed back into the bus, leading the girl gently by the hand. As she sat down, he handed her a blanket, a tear in the corner of his eye. She refused to meet his eyes, curling under the blanket in her seat.
He stood there for a second longer, a hand half-stretched towards her, before it fell as he walked back to his seat. Replacing his bat in its honored place, he glanced back out the window of the bus. Mangled on the ground, he saw the other man's body, painted red and black. A wide grin split his solemn features, even as tears trickled down his cheeks.
Reaching over, he pulled out a small notepad and pen. Flipping through, he turned to the last page, which was filled with tally marks. His hand shook as another mark joined all the rest.
Twenty-one times he'd been too late.
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