The Waiting List

The Waiting List

You’ve had those moments too, haven’t you? The ones where you ask, "Why did this happen to me?" As if you’re not a part of this world, as if this world isn’t a part of you. As if you’re living in a fortified castle, impervious to the devils outside. I’ve had those moments. And they burned me to the core.

When my soul was breathed into me by God, I wasn’t capable of understanding what was happening. Was it a curse or a gift? I couldn’t tell. I didn’t even understand why I was here, in this world. Over time, everything began to fall into place, piece by piece. I saw things I wished I hadn’t seen, heard things I wished I hadn’t heard. And leaving my fortified castle, I found myself in a hellish solitude.

Every morning, I waited for the bus to arrive, alongside many others. If I told you I never boarded the bus, you might be surprised, but it’s true—I never did. I always waited with the others for the buses to come. They boarded and left; I stayed. I couldn’t leave.

I remember the first time I felt pain as if it were yesterday. It was as though the weight of the entire world had been placed on my shoulders in that moment. An elderly woman, around seventy, was waiting for the bus with a plastic bag in her hand. I could feel the rain on the back of my neck, the cold enveloping me entirely. A young woman approached the old lady, wrinkling her nose before stepping away. I’ll never forget that moment, not even in death—though I don’t know when that will come. When the bus arrived, the old woman’s card didn’t have enough balance, so they made her get off. I saw her check her pockets. She only had one lira. She turned and walked in the opposite direction. It was cold that day. I felt even colder.

The second blow came from a madman. Yes, a madman. That’s what you call him. But I listened to him. I heard what he said. Unlike you, I shared in his sorrow. He rested his head on my lap, curling into himself with his knees drawn to his chest. He told me, through tears, how he had been driving a car, his wife and their five-month-old baby beside him. "I had been drinking," he said. He swore he wasn’t drunk. His attention wavered for just a moment, and the car plunged into a ravine. He screamed. The people waiting for the bus scattered. Only I heard his words. Quietly, he said, "They died." People were afraid. I cried even harder.

I suffered countless times while waiting for the buses to arrive. I never boarded one. I wanted to escape, to leave. But I couldn’t go, nor could I stay.

One day, a man came. The tears in his coat had been clumsily stitched, the toes of his shoes were worn through. A faint smile played on his lips. He glanced around sheepishly, asking someone for the time. I could never understand why people looked at the poor that way. Dozens of expensive cars passed by us that day. The man sat on the curb, slowly leaned to one side, and collapsed. Apart from one or two people, no one paid him any mind. An ambulance came much later. "He might have fainted from hunger," someone said. They took him away, sirens blaring. Everyone watched them leave. There was so much noise. I went even deafer.

"God! I can’t bear this. I can’t explain it. There’s too much pain in this world. Why? Why me?" I always asked myself. "I hear the sound of pain, God. I see the pain. I listen to the people… their lives, their fears, their regrets. I can’t let go. I can’t go anywhere else. I wake up in the same place. I sleep in the same place." But it doesn’t matter—I can’t die.

The screech of brakes shattered my ears. My vision darkened with despair. He shuffled forward, dragging his feet, and stopped right in front of me. He couldn’t have been more than forty. He looked tired, distracted. If he had spoken to me, I would have listened. I couldn’t have comforted him, but I would have listened. I wanted to say, "Come, sit, rest a while," but I couldn’t. It was clear he stepped deliberately in front of the bus. The driver saw him too late. Hit the brakes too late. I couldn’t do anything. If I could have moved, I would have gone to him, but no one did. He writhed there for a while. A few people recorded it on their phones. He died quietly. And I died the most.

Yes, God gave me a soul, but He must have thought the world wasn’t ready for the stories a bus stop could tell. Yet, perhaps the thing I needed most was to be able to tell them. By hearing their words, I learned their languages. When I finally reached the maturity to understand people, I wished more than anything that I could turn back time and unlearn it all.

If only you knew how long I’ve been here. Those who come, those who go, the seasons.

In the early morning, a cat came quietly, slipped inside, and stretched out on my bench. It was so peaceful. The sky was beginning to lighten. There wasn’t a single car or bus on the road. People were deep in sleep. The cat slept, and I watched it. At one point, the street sweepers passed by. Everything was calm. And I was the calmest of all.

deri