Ticket

He was in that tunnel at the taxi rank but the rain was pishing through the roof. He fucking hated himself. He had let it happen again. He fucking hated it it was as if he’d committed a crime but the only crime was self inflicted.  He knew this would happen. The tunnel finished and he was out there, exposed. He realized he was talking, aloud. He didn’t care. The rain was rattling down and it was a hike to the bus stop. His arms were cold where they were touching his sleeves, the water had penetrated. His ticket was in his breast pocket and it would be sodden. That would do him, an argument BUT I FUCKING PAID FOR A RETURN! Bastards, all of them, he was the biggest. He was a bastard, scum, he wasn’t fit to call himself a human being. He had to take the long way round at the car rentals because of the traffic. The weather was vile, it was apt. He knew this was going to happen. He knew it, too right he knew it he fucking planned it. As well as a bastard he was a user, he fucking deserved it, he deserved this turmoil.  The road under the dual carriageway then he was up the other side and the rain was joined by gale force winds. There was a queue at the bus stop, everyone huddled into the shelter. No room for another body, especially not his. He got his tobacco out. There was a cigarette already rolled. He hadn’t smoked all day. After contortions with his hood he got it alight. It didn’t last long, he couldn’t even taste it. His first smoke in eight hours, what had he been trying to prove? Mr Clean Living.  The bus came. There was no shouting about the ticket. He found a seat half way down the aisle and rubbed the condensation off the window. He saw his reflection and wanted to spit in his face.