Heartbeat On A Wing

• Sophie Mason, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2017

I don't want to say how I found it, but I'll tell you that it was an accident. It was sitting at the base of a hill, its head hidden in the bushes like a crying child hiding its face in the fabric of its mother's shirt. Its body was rusting, moss was climbing into its windows, and I could hear the echo of a baby bird's voice come from within. I had found myself walking towards the warped door and pushing it lightly with the tips of my fingers. My arms were scratched and striped with red lines, and I could feel bruises forming across my face. Now, the bruises are purple in anger, like a storm forming on the horizon, and the scratches are thin lines of scabs, but when I stood beside the hollow bus, the damage was fresh.
The door on the back of the bus screamed in protest when I pulled it, jolting as it stuck on the hinges of the door. My mouth twisted in impatience, and my shoulder throbbed as I wrenched open the door hard enough for it to hit the back of the bus with a bang that echoed through the trees.
I stood and looked into the dark doorway, my chest lifting and falling with short, hot breaths that puffed against my top lip. The baby bird hidden inside the bus was silent except for the soft fluttering of wings that came from the front seats.
Inside, the bus was dark with the green light the moss filtered in. The floor groaned as I stepped inside, edging my feet closer to the where the floor met the walls of the vehicle. My eyes adjusted to the hulking silhouettes, old seats for people who are now old but once sat with an air of youth. The seats had stuffing falling out of them, rips along the sides and puddles of fabric pooled around their feet. My own foot had slipped, sliding into a metal leg of a seat that sent pain up my calf. My heart had fluttered in my chest like the wings of the chick that sat in the front of the bus. I wobbled and fell to my knees. I remember the pain edging up from my calves to my knees and then to my hips.
But I don't remember much more. Which is why I'm here, writing this. So I can remember. I remember my mother's angry voice and hot tears spilling down my cheeks to make burning, red rivers. I remember bruises and my bare feet and the baby bird with wings like a heartbeat.
I can't remember how I got here, writing this, but I know it all started on that bus, hidden in the woods. It all ended in that hollow of a past world.