The Bus Stop

Every morning she and her stepbrother would head out the door and down the street to the bus stop. It was their time to catch up, share, complain, commiserate. Neither one was happy, and both searched for something to ease the misery. The house seemed almost repressive.

Her escape usually came in the way of drugs and drinking. His started with a religion his mother had found. He burned his posters, he broke his records, he lectured her. That only lasted a few months.

And then he found drugs. He moved out right after they graduated. She only visited once. Even with all her experience, she had never seen so many different kinds of drugs, so much paraphernalia. She was worried, and rightly so.

Just three months later, he was gone.