45 souls tightly stuffed in a tin can, breathing hot air in harmony in my direction (and no, I’m not describing human smuggling across the border). Droplets of sweat form on my forehead with each sip I take from my tiny but precious water bottle as perspiration becomes an instant reaction to almost any action besides thinking. I wipe my forehead with a dirty soaked rag and hold it in my hand to be able to absorb my own moist.
I shout to the cardigan wearing driver to switch on the air conditioning. He gives me a confused glance, as his hair is brushed aside with the wind coming from the only open window on the driver’s side. I hear an old woman’s amplified voice coming from the back of the bus, protesting about my rightful demand. She says it’s the breeze that makes her sick. Other voices arise all against me. I give up as the intense heat steals my will to fight and I pass out.
Going through hell on a mechanical hell hound every single day makes me truly wonder why people choose to live hell in life and yet they are scared stiff to go there in the afterlife.