The bus stink is stuck in my hair, stale coffee, damp coats and hopelessness. Perfect for me then.
I've been staring out of the same scratched window for so long the landscape has stopped feeling real. Fields blur into houses, houses blur into miles of tarmac. Grey sky, green fields, grey sky, green fields. Repeat until death.
The baseball cap I found in a public toilet is pulled low enough that nobody can get a good look at me, which is fine by me because I'm fairly certain my current expression is somewhere between traumatised fugitive and woman one minor inconvenience away from biting.
Every now and then, the driver catches my reflection in his mirror. I look away before he can decide whether I need help. I don't need help, I need f*****g answers. There's a difference.
Unfortunat
