He is listening to his music player, waiting for the usual bus to take home. Two women sit to his side. It happens swift; a panther pouncing on its prey. Forearms tighten around his neck. Shock. Tightening. The body, not the head, repulses unsuccessfully: the instinct for life, the dying flicker of a flame.
He wakes, and slowly regains himself. His wallet and his phone are gone. Pieces of him are amiss. Why has no one yet stirred to help him, if not moments ago during the assault, now? He who has just been seriously harmed and violated in the middle of a bus station? Where are we, and what have we come to, that someone should experience a traumatic event under the public eye, and not even be regarded? To be passively disregarded? In these circumstances, what kind of person could remain self-interested, distant, and feign shameless ignorance? Oh Bartleby, Oh Humanity!
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