Every Story Was a Piece of Hope

(I edited the story, making the changes mentioned in the first two comments)

“I was never really anybody important,” I heard her say.

It wasn’t exactly something actually being said in a normal voice – it was more of a thought mumbled under her breath. It was blatantly obvious she hadn’t even realized she had said anything. Not many people listen to what people on a bus say to themselves, many don't even bother to listen to or even note who sits next to them, many try to stay oblivious to the people around them, and to their surroundings. I am not one of those people.

I still gazed at the seat in front of me, pretending not to be listening. I knew she would say something else, the mumblers always did. As I patiently waited I heard the pittar patter of the rain on the bus windows, she was staring out of, trying to think through her problems. She had that mysterious air about her – she could be anywhere in the world and she would still stand out. Who wouldn't notice her flaming red hair? Or the thin tattooed spirals covering her left hand, the hand she was now moving her hair out of her face with; the tell-tale sign that she was about to say more.

“If only I had stood a chance… If only,” she mumbled to herself. My curiosity wasn’t about to let this one go though.

“If only you had stood a chance with what?” I asked. Her piercing green eyed gaze shifted away from the rain and on to me, her cheeks turned scarlet.

“I… I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized I’d been mumbling again,” I smiled at her.

“What’s your name?” I asked curiously.

“Scarlett, just Scarlett and yours?” she said slowly, as if she wasn’t sure how much to say.

“My names Emma, I’m sorry for intruding your train of thought. I’m just so curious about what you were referring to when you mumbled – if only you had stood a chance with what?” I prompted cautiously.

Her gaze returned to the window as if she was having an internal battle with herself about whether she should tell me her story. Apparently the need to tell someone had won, because she turned to me “Well,” she said, and proceeded to tell me the most intriguing story I have ever heard.

I found out she was from Paris but had been sent to England when she was young. Her father was a train operator and she’d grown up speaking the language of trains, playing on the train tracks, and dirtying her clothes playing in the trains. I could just imagine a little girl with flaming red hair climbing through compartments and living off the tales people from everywhere told her. She said it was beautiful to hear people’s stories, the air in which they spoke, the stories which could go on for hours or minutes and affect her either way. Every story was a piece of hope, an inspiration to make a difference to her small little world and to get out into the world – to one day have her own story to tell. Then she met an abusive man who she only referred to as him. She said briefly that she changed during that time – she no longer thrived on herself and her needs were insignificant to his. He slowly took over her life I gathered; possessiveness seen as love, her inspiration from others diminished and he was her life source physically and mentally. She was trapped and she had never even realised it, a year later she was still stuck in that hole. Somehow between all of it she met her ‘Amore’, well that’s at least what she called him.

“He tried to help me get out,” she said, “the love in his eyes was pure. I tarnished that love. I pushed him away you see? By thinking that I didn’t deserve to have someone as amazing as my Amore I tarnished it. HE made sure I couldn’t get out… And by the time I had left my Amore was gone, gone with pain in his eyes when I refused his proposal out of fear. As soon as he left I realised the mistake I had made – that I didn’t just deserve my Amore, I needed him. All I have is a phone number I found in his old apartment, I know he lives in New York now and I have to have faith that this number will take me to him. That is why I am here.”

We sat in silence for a while just thinking about everything that had been said, the bus was still rattling along from the airport but was nearing my stop. I turned to her grinning, “I can try to help you… I know this amazing café that’s coming up. Have coffee with me?” and magically the mysterious stranger smiled at me.

“I would love to, Ma Cherie.”

We entered the café with bakery smells that lured you in and cakes that melted in your mouth. “Where to now?” she asked after we had sat down.

“I don’t know” I replied, “But we’ll find your Amore.” I turned to take out a piece of paper to start writing ideas on what we should do next. An adventure to find him, I wondered where it would take us.