A fading red sun had just been setting over the horizon when Holly curled herself into her seat by the window. Lulled by the constant journey of the bus wheels and the soft conversation of the other passengers, she drifted, dreaming of sunshine and warmth, but the sun had long disappeared when she opened her eyes to find the bus had stopped to pick up more passengers.
She watched them file on, already travel-weary, transferring from another line. When he sat next to her, the bus was nearly full, and he apologized as he stowed a camouflage bag under the seat. She noticed, the way she noticed everything, his crew cut, the ragged nails bitten to the quick, the dark hallows under the eyes before he closed them in what was clearly an involuntary act. He was exhausted.
"It's okay, I don't take up much room," Holly murmured, curling up again on her window side, knowing he hadn't heard her. He was asleep already.
When she awoke again, the moon was too high to be seen, but high enough to give the highway a white glow, like a photo negative. The interior of the bus was dark and quiet. Everyone was asleep, it seemed—there wasn't even the dim shine of a single reading light. Holly found her head resting on the chest of the man beside her. His arm had found its way to her waist, pulling her in close, and although she wondered at it, she wasn't surprised.
She seemed to have an inner magnet that drew her to men—especially those who needed her. And she had been sure, even in her sleepy state on their first meeting, that this one needed her. He slept, but not peacefully. His eyes moved rapidly beneath the lids. His right hand, the one in his lap, twitched. She could actually hear him grinding his teeth in his sleep, his jaw working over and over.
As she watched, he made a soft, grunting noise, his body shuddering involuntarily, and he was immediately awake, the right hand, which had been twitching, was at her throat, and he pressed her back against the seat with what couldn't be described as anything else but a deep, guttural growl.
She didn't scream or panic. Instead, she went limp, waiting while sanity slowly returned to the man's eyes and face, and with it, a dawning horror.
"Oh my god," he whispered, lips trembling, eyes wide. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. So sorry!" He pulled his hand back as if touching her burned him. She was essentially pinned against the seat until he moved quickly to his own side, shaking, resting his head in his hands, elbows on his knees.
She didn't have to ask—she knew. But she did anyway, her hand moving to touch the soft fuzz at the nape of his neck, stroking gently. "Iraq?"
He gave a short nod, not lifting his head, clearly ashamed of what he'd done, what he'd been about to do.
"I.Am.So.Sorry." Each word was punctuated, as if he could make them more clear and meaningful by doing so, but the words were whispered—they were both aware of the sleeping people around them. "I was dreaming. I was...I thought you..."
"It's okay." Holly's hand moved over his shoulder as he sat back in the seat. His eyes met hers, and she saw the pain there, the horror.
"Please." He took her hand, pushed her gently away, his expression beyond pain. "I can't. You touching me. I just can't."
