Chapter 8 Look What I Made You Do

It's nearly dark when John reaches the bus stop. The sun is gone, but the sky hasn't committed to night. The streetlights flicker on, slow and unsure. A breeze picks up, rustling trash and fallen receipts along the curb like warnings no one will read. John stands beneath the flickering light, swaying.

He's sweating through his clothes, but his skin feels cold. His breath comes shallow and hollow. His limbs drag like they no longer belong to him. His eyes—tinged yellow—scan the road for headlights. His phone is dead. His fix is gone. All he can hear now is his own mind, and it's loud.

     Then, the bus appears. Its headlights emerge from the dark like eyes—too bright, too slow, too quiet. It coasts to a stop with a sigh that sounds almost reluctant. The doors creak open. John boards in silence.

"You okay, buddy?" the driver asks. The driver doesn't move much—he just watches John.

John doesn't answer. He stumbles to the back and takes a seat. The interior is dimly lit—too dim. The lights hum with a low flicker, casting everyone in a sickly, pale glow. The seats are filled with blank faces. Ten, maybe twelve passengers. No one speaks. No one moves.

It feels like a waiting room. Or a holding cell. John slumps against the window, trying to rest. But the glass is cold. Not just cool—unnaturally cold. His fingers twitch. His jaw slackens. He begins to drool.

     The silence on the bus is not normal. It's not peaceful. It listens. Passengers shift in their seats without turning their heads. One woman clutches her purse a little tighter. A man stares forward with a stillness that feels practiced—like someone trying not to wake a beast. When John mutters something incoherent, several passengers become tense at the sound and tone of his voice.

     At the next stop, three of them rise and exit together. Before the doors close, one of them leans toward the driver. "You got a right head in the back," he murmurs. "Be careful."

The driver nods slowly—almost too slowly—and shuts the doors without a word. The bus hisses and rolls forward, deeper into the dark. The ride continues. The interior grows colder. The air is thicker. John shifts restlessly, muttering to himself in half-sentences—fragments of arguments, slogans, disbelief.

Outside, the world slips past in vague smears of light and shadow. Inside, no one speaks. Only the hum of denial holds everything together. And no one—not even the driver—dares to disturb it.

     In the seat ahead of him, a man and woman are talking quietly. Their voices carry just enough for John to catch the thread. They are discussing something that happened at work—a supervisor, a shift change, something that feels sexist. Both are calm but clearly upset. Frustrated. The woman says she is thinking about contacting HR. The man mentions legal action.

    John stares out the window, trying to ignore them. But his body isn't ignoring anything. He focuses on the low growl of the engine. He tries to count the rhythm of each turn and rattle. But their voices keep cutting through—clean, clear, factual. His brain fights to shut it out, but his body… his body knows.

He knows what they are saying is true. That the incident they described likely happened. That sexism is real. It affects women daily in ways he’s never had to understand. But he has built his world on the opposite belief. It was another truth that was hurting him. In self-defense, he has told himself that discrimination against women was over. That it was just an excuse. That he was the one being left behind. He had to make it a lie to ease his pain.

 "What are you talking about?" he blurts out, his voice sharp and cracking.

"You can't blame all your problems on sexism! People like you get everything while I have to suffer for something I didn't do! I pay for your incompe—"

He stops mid-word. His body seizes. A violent cough rips through his throat. His whole chest convulses. He doubles over, clutching his stomach. He coughs again—wet, choking. Passengers jerk away in their seats. Some cover their mouths. Others turn and stare, frozen.

He tries to finish the word. "Incompe—" he croaks. But the final syllable collapses into a gurgle. He whispers it anyway. "Incompetence…"

His attempt at creating a lie to ease his symptoms had failed and he knew it. Blood spills from his mouth. His hands tremble. His head droops low. The moment John whispers "incompetence," everything changes. His fingers spasm, twitching like wires. He rises slowly, staggers—and then stands upright in the aisle.

But he isn't the same. His face has twisted into something alien. His skin, already pale, has gone grayish and tight. Veins bulge across his cheeks and forehead like black branches. His eyes dart left, then right, then left again—wild and searching. He is looking for someone. Someone to blame. Someone to punish. Someone to hurt.

     The passengers don't wait for instructions. They stand as one and rush toward the front of the bus. Too late. John strikes. He lunges forward and grabs the nearest rider—a man in a brown work jacket—by the collar and slams him against the window with unnatural strength. The glass cracks. The man's skull splits open on impact, and he slumps, lifeless.

"I'm right," John says. Then louder. "I'M RIGHT." He catches a second passenger by the neck—a woman trying to climb over a seat—and twists. Her scream is cut short. Her body collapses to the floor.

"I'm right," he growls again, breath hitching, voice soaked in blood and madness. A third person, sprinting toward the driver, doesn't make it. John reaches out, seizes the person's arm, and yanks. With a sickening pop, the shoulder dislocates—and the arm tears free, pulled clean from the socket.

The force of it knocks John backward. He collapses into the last seat of the bus, panting. Bleeding. Still. He stares forward with hollow eyes. His mouth twitches. His hands tremble. Blood soaks his shirt. His head tilts slightly, as if listening to something no one else can hear.

The bus is still. The survivors are gone. And for the first time all day, John is quiet as well as his mind