Something hot splattered onto my back. I felt it soaking steadily through my t-shirt, the warmth making me feel sick. My whole body stiffened, all kinds of strange and gruesome thoughts whirring through my head. My sketchpad fell to the floor as my left hand moved involuntarily to the back of my head, to run my fingers through my hair. It was tangled, and sticky.
I stood for a while, swaying on the spot, watching the chaotic scene in front of me, and dreading what was happening behind. I tried desperately to work up the courage to look at my hand. The longer I stayed still, the longer I could preserve the shattered mundanity of the bus ride I'd begun.
Swallowing, I decided that protecting my mental health might, in fact, be detrimental to my physical health, or indeed my life. My hand shot up in front of my face and I retched as I saw blood.
I don't know why I looked behind me. Perhaps it was a reflex, but I wished I hadn't.
The familiar wave of heat washed over my entire body, and my gasping breaths struggled to take in enough air as I stumbled away from my seat and down the aisle. I left my bag and my sketchpad on the floor by my seat - I would miss them later if I got off the bus. I came to a sudden halt infront of a girl and a biker-guy bending over an unconcious man lying on the foor. He was bleeding too...