It’s Monday evening. I’m on the bus home. I’m just winding down from work, and I’m tired and grumpy. Being on the bus does nothing to remedy my state of mind. I zone out. I daydream. But I never close my eyes.

Today it’s my turn to stand. I hate finishing work at rush hour; there are never any seats left on the bus and it takes ages just to leave the city centre. So I’m fighting for balance, there are hardly any handholds, and the people are crammed in like proverbial sardines. My mood slips further.

“The Flight of the Valkyries” is suddenly electronically raped twenty minutes into my journey. I’m no fan of classical music, but ring-tones should be monitored. It’s almost enough to cause me flashbacks to ‘Nam. Not that I was ever there; I’m English and far too young. I just saw a little on TV.

“HELLO?” Jesus. Just fucking die, will you? I don’t even turn to look - there isn’t any point. I can paint a pretty accurate picture of the perpetrator just by listening to the predictable conversation he’s about to have.

I wait for the obvious before allowing my mind to touch the canvas.

“I’M ON THE BUS!” There it is. I start to paint. He’s mid-twenties, short dark hair, beer belly – but clean shaven. He wears a suit bought straight off the rack, and he works in a shitty job that he pretends to like. Then he goes home alone, to his empty house, and masturbates furiously all night over his extensive Baywatch collection before cleaning up the mess with a pair of knickers left there accidentally by an ex girlfriend.

“YEAH! I’M GOING HOME NOW! YEAH! SORRY, YOU’RE BREAKING UP! WHAT?”

His family think he’s successful, but they’ve never seen his scummy little flat in the west side. He goes out once a week, drinks too much, falls over on the way home. Never lucky. Always burned out. Always trying to impress, but lacking the means.

“The Flight of the Valkyries” is resumed in those annoying electronic tones. I turn around slowly, just in time to see the guy, an exact copy of the image in my head, press the button to take the call.

He isn’t quick enough. I reach out, snatch the phone from his clammy hand, and let it drop to the floor. I lift my foot and bring it down forcefully. There’s a satisfying crunch.

“Oi!” He’s scared. I can see that he’s scared. I’m glad that he’s scared. It just fuels my fire. I give him a moments more glaring notice before I turn back to face the front, casual, controlled. Calculated.

“SORRY! MUST HAVE LOST YOU THERE!” I blink. My stop is finally here. I egress without looking at my momentary nemesis. I don’t need to; his greasy visage is already burned into my retina.

Buses, in general, are a good idea. I’m the first person to admit this. They get people from A to B relatively quickly, thanks to bus lanes, and it can sometimes actually be quite satisfying to go straight past the social elite (or, those who own their own cars) who must sit frustrated at the wheel and watch me go past.

But, to be honest, after almost five years of getting on the fucking thing every day, there and back, along the same fucking route, well… it works up a different kind of frustration. It’s not so much the bus; buses can be changed. They could put individual, private compartments in them, for instance. Or they may provide passengers with mind-altering psychic messages that lull them into semi-consciousness until their stop is close by. Neither is very likely to happen but both, to me, are nice thoughts.

No, it’s not the bus. It’s the fucking passengers. I’ve seen every kind of passenger there is. And it’s not just the dullness of the whole routine that pisses me off; the fact that I am on a bus with fifteen, twenty other people who all fit into a specific category – of which I count a total of twenty-seven. No, that would be ignorant of me, not to mention hypocritical (I mean, I must conform to one of those stereotypes by that way of thinking, surely?). It’s the fact that the people are, truly, twats. All of them. I can’t stand a single one of them. Even people I know – don’t fucking talk to me on the bus. I hate it. I hate you when you’re on it.

It’s Tuesday afternoon. I’m on the bus to see my girlfriend. It’s my day off and I’d rather spend it in bed. Being on the bus only makes this worse. I zone out. I daydream. But I never close my eyes.

The bus is half empty today. A welcome fact. My seat is the third from the back, on the left hand side, with another seat directly opposite. My feet are up. My rucksack is by my side, the strap wrapped around my forearm. There is nothing of value in there, but it’s a good bag. It’s mine.

As soon as they get on I know that any hope of a peaceful ride is about to be shattered. There are three of them, fourteen years old at a guess, and they should be in school. They are wearing tracksuit bottoms, dark hooded-sweaters with the hoods pulled up over their heads despite the fact that the day is a mild one. They sit behind me, on the back seat.

“Nah man, I’m fuckin’ tellin’ ya, she was bein’ well noisy yo! Thought she was gonna wake my mam up innit!” One of those annoying laughs, the kind you really hope are forced, because to be afflicted with a laugh like that would make me want to slash my wrists. It sounds reminiscent of a machine gun. Fucking awful.

I sit and bristle, quiet and on edge, and wait for them to say something to me.

“Your mam was probably watchin’ innit!” Different individual, same fucking laugh.

“Nah mate, it was your mam who was watchin’ innit, she was sat in the corner flickin’ her bean yo!” My bristles begin to bristle. I seethe; hatred and agitation flowing freely from every pore in my body. I zone out. I daydream. But I never close my eyes.

Suddenly my thoughts are crushed. One of them has my bag; he’s confused as to how it’s still attached to me and, for a moment, so am I. But I think quicker than he does.

The surprise in his eyes as I stand and spin to face him is almost enough to satisfy me. But then I have his throat in my grip, squeezing for an instant before pushing out with all my strength. The back of his head makes a sickening crunch on the pole behind him, and then he drops, eyes glassy. One down.

“Nice try, dickhead,” I hiss, looking up at the other two. They know that their only exit is through me. I have almost ten years on them. A foot in height. They’re scared. And I’m glad they’re scared. “Come on then.” I keep my voice low.

“Nah mate, we ain’t doin’ nothin’, it was him yo!”

“You’re not fuckin’ black, you little prick, why are you talkin’ like that?” The scene reminds me of school - years ago now - but this time I’m in full control of the situation. They can do nothing. They don’t even get up from their seats. They don’t even reply.

“I fucked your mam last night innit yo!” For a moment I’m confused. I’m sat with my feet up, facing forward, and the three kids are moving past me to get off the bus. None of them make a move to touch my bag.

My dad happened to be a bus driver. I never knew the man. He died before I was born, so my ‘condition’ can’t be attributed to that fact. I’ve seen a medal of his, in my mother’s room, locked away in a box. Yes, he got a medal for driving a bus. Well, why not? These people are fucking heroes! I don’t have to speak to the people sharing the journey with me, and I don’t have to do it for eight hours a day, either. If I did, that would be it. ‘Go Postal’? It would be a fucking blood bath. I’d give myself two weeks, tops, before I snap.

And yet there are bus drivers, like my dad probably (though I never really asked about his job, all I know is that he got a medal for it), who do this for years. Decades, even. And for what? The money? Ha! I made more than that at McDonalds, I’ll bet! Maybe they’re masochists, or just people like me, who end up spending so much time on the fucking thing that they figure, hey, why not earn a living doing it? Well fuck that.

It’s Thursday night. I’m on the bus on my way to a nightclub. I’m glad to be going out. I’m ready to vent my aggressions to some decent music. The bus prepares me in a way that only the bus can. I zone out. I daydream. But I never close my eyes.

Once again, it’s mercifully half empty. I’m sitting on the second seat from the back, on the right. I’m already picking my targets.

The man in front of me is black, well built, with a shaved head. I didn’t get a good view of his features on the walk up the aisle, but he’s sitting quietly anyway. No need to fuck with him. The man across the aisle from him is white, skinny, dirty looking. He has the look of a backpacker about him, only he has no bag. Again, nothing. No point. I spend ten minutes at a loss.

I know before they even get on. The bus slows down to stop, and I can already see them. I’m already painting a picture. Three girls, dressed up. I hazard a guess at sixteen, though they could pass for twenty. They enter the bus, pay their fare, and I already know that there’s going to be problems.

Here we have three college girls, going out for the night just like me, except instead of venting aggression they’re probably out to vent some sexual frustration. They’re half staggering as they move up the aisle, heading for the seat behind me, and I know they’ve been drinking. Not bad looking, but the language that leaves their dirty, slutty little mouths offsets any attraction I might have had. One or two of them may have a boyfriend. I pity the fools.

My canvas complete, I begin to look for a context, but my train of thought is shattered.

“You alright darlin’? You wanna sit up here with me?” Her voice is loud, annoying, uncalled for, and her speech is definitely slurred. I turn to look. She probably expects me to wither before her, perhaps go red. But she doesn’t know as much about me as I know about her. She has no canvas, no reference to constantly check and tweak.

“I’ve got a better view from here,” I reply, just as loud as her. Just as confident. The girl sitting next to her opens her legs and I catch a glimpse of black underwear, making a point to let my gaze rest there for a moment, unabashed.

“Where you goin’ tonight, love?” She speaks like she’s years older, but I can tell she’s got nothing on me. She hasn’t seen the shit I’ve seen, or been through what I have. I’ve been getting this bus every day for four years now, and I’ve seen it all. There are no surprises anymore. She has nothing on me in terms of experience, and I’m not about to back down from a bunch of sixteen year old slags.

“Just out with a few of my mates.” Unless I get a better offer, I add mentally.

“You should come with us!” It’s like a fucking chorus.

“Where you going?” Nowhere classy, I know. Not these dirty whores. No way.

“Just the pub.”

“You’re meeting Simon you slag!” the girl with the dynamic legs screams, before looking back to me. “It’s right though, I’ll look after you sweetheart!” I hate black underwear. I zone out. I daydream. But I never close my eyes.

“Sounds like a plan,” I say. And why not?

Now I’m behind the Old Pint Pot, next to Manchester Ship Canal. She’s on her knees, her head bobbing up and down. My hand is in her hair, gripping, pulling, guiding her motion. The other holds a bottle of Carlsberg, raising it to my lips periodically to take a sip. My final mouthful comes at the same time hers does, and then I’m pulling her head back, smashing the bottle on the wall beside me, raking the shattered remnants across her throat. And now she’s in the canal, floating down river. Head down. Spread-eagle.

“You know where we are if you change your mind!” She shouts from the front of the bus. I nod in response, my thoughts still down at the Canal.

And this doesn’t scare me. It doesn’t make me wonder if I’m alright in the head at all. Why is this? Any sane person would seek psychiatric help instantly, right? Wrong. I’m sane. I’m a pretty normal guy, I get on with my friends and the girls seem to like me. I’m not particularly into grizzly movies, and my taste in music is far from the extreme. So then why am I suddenly fantasizing about some poor girl who tried to chat me up?

It might be because once I’m off that bus, and my mood has lifted, I don’t recall any of it. I usually spend thirty minutes on it, thirty minutes made up of thought and irritation and possibly a small degree of paranoia. But it goes by like two seconds because every journey ends in such an exciting way that I forget all about the build-up. I take it for granted, and it’s a part of me. I don’t mean part of me like my arm, or my partner. It’s more like a cancer. It’s eating away at me, slowly and painfully, and the only way to remove it is… what? Get driving lessons?

It’s Friday afternoon. I’m on the bus home from work. I’m coming home early. My head hurts. I’m hung over. The bus is laughing at me. I zone out. I daydream. But I never close my eyes.

I’m not interested in the people surrounding me. My canvas is blank today. I just want to be at home, in bed, with some painkillers and my TV. This mood seems prevalent throughout my immediate peers. Nobody is speaking. Nobody cares.

Nobody screams when the truck slams into the side of our transport, killing those in the direct path instantly and throwing the survivors around inside the enclosed space. Glass is everywhere, flying through our lives like a deadly blizzard, lacerating and puncturing anything in the way.

We stop skidding along the tarmac three stops from my house. It just got colder. I blink the blood out of my eyes and survey the scene. People are so sickly twisted around the poles that there’s no way in Hell that they can be alive, their eyes open and staring, rivulets of blood trickling from their gaping mouths.

One girl lies with her head resting on the ruined window, her life slowly pulsing from her equally ruined throat to form a pool around her. Somebody else has hit the back of his head and is lying unconscious by my feet; face down in the broken glass and a spreading lake of red.

I stand slowly, calmly, deliberate in my actions. I move towards the front of the bus, ignoring the bodies, parts of bodies, that I’m stepping on. The door is hanging off and I have no problem getting out into the sunlight. People are crowding round the carnage, and I’m ignoring them, walking the last half a mile or so to my house. To my bed. To my painkillers. To my TV.