When I was young, my imagination saved me.

She sat down in the window seat in the third row of the Greyhound bus as her personal narrative rolled dramatically through her thoughts, her eyes abandoned to anyone watching. Faded purple hair with black roots starting to grow out was twisted into a chaotic bun on the top of the young woman's head, her too-long bangs framing her caramel face softly as she dug through her battered backpack, removing an equally battered sketchbook that she flipped open to the next clean page and began to draw her story.

What else could an eight-year-old girl do? My parents were far too stern, keeping me unnaturally still all hours I was home. I was forced to keep my hands in my lap, so instead of fiddling with my fingers, I began playing with my mind.

The girls' hand guided a fine-tipped pencil across the page, barely noticing that the graphite was flaking away in all directions. She was far too lost in her thoughts to concentrate on what she was doing in the real world.

I imagined galaxies and stars, planets orbiting around a brilliant red sun. Nebulas fluxed and light shards peppered the forever-going sky with fragments of prismatic color. I was entranced, addicted to my own mind - in fact, I was so hooked on my thoughts, I barely noticed that the colors I saw in my minds eyes were beginning to be seen with my bodies as well.

It was after that thought when the young girl finally realized that while her hand had stopped sketching, the markings on her paper had not. They had flooded the entire page, cloudy and radiant shading beginning to appear to show what could only have been a piece of the night sky splattered across the rough parchment. Even without color, the artwork was simply too stunning to be a drawing - it was far too stunning to even be a photograph.

Sighing quietly, chest deflating, the girl glanced around cautiously to make sure no one saw the art blossom across the paper. The only other people on the bus were an elderly man who was snoring against a window, and a young man with black hair that looked as if it had been razored a little too much at a hair salon. He was typing on his phone as if the world depended on it, brows pulled together and the tip of his tongue stuck out in concentration as his muscular hands struggled with the small keys. The girl seemed intrigued by him - something about him seemed so powerful, bordering on dangerous.

As if sensing someone staring, the man's head began to rise. Purple hair flared out slightly as the girl whipped back forwards in a half-panic, tanned face flushing with embarrassment. He almost caught me staring! After a moment of pretending to be busy with her sketchbook (even if her pencil never even touched the paper), her shoulders relaxed and she let out a quiet sigh, putting her pencil back in the battered plastic case and shutting it with a shrill snap.

Everything seemed fine for the next several hours. The strange man made sure of that - he watched the purple-haired beauty reaching into her backpack and pull out a jacket, using it as a blanket of sorts as she reclined the seat as far as it would go, curling her legs up onto the chair next to her conveniently. He noticed that the soles of her shoes were battered and tearing apart - one was held together with paperclips instead of a shoelace. Her skinny jeans weren't in much better shape - both of the knees were torn open, and there was an obviously hand-stitched patch on her left inside thigh. However, she seemed clean and happy enough as she slept peacefully, a pair of cheap ear buds playing unknown music to block out the rumble of the bus engine.

The elderly man left the bus around two in the morning, and the bus driver was switched with another at three. Another four people boarded the bus at the same time - all of them with the same razored black hair and rock-punk clothes, two of them having black smokey eyeliner around their eyes. "Hey, Andy - Jake, Ash, Jinx," The man who was already on the bus greeted his friends with a weary smile, and they returned it. They all had packs - and had only just come off four other Greyhound buses. "C.C.," The man who had been greeted as Jake grunted softly as he flopped onto the seat next to the larger, more muscular man next to him.

At the sound, the purple-haired girl shifted slightly and let out a complaining breath. The other three men were more careful, being courteous of the sleeping bus-rider. "Is that her?" Jinx asked in a hush, motioning towards the girl. C.C. nodded in response, glancing at the girl with faded purple hair snuggled under a thin jacket. "Her name's Bluebell Bellova - yeah, Bellova. Rich Australian Bellova. She just turned eighteen a few days ago, and she decided to ditch her mansion to travel all over America."

C.C. leaned back in his chair tiredly, closing his eyes as his friends studied the girl across the bus. She didn't seem like a typical rich girl - her hair was faded and unbrushed, no makeup, and torn up clothes she obviously hung onto for a long time. The only thing that gave away any hint of billionaire wealth was a ring on her right hand - a family seal, they realized almost at once. A simple silver band inlaid with several blue gems that shaped into a daffodil. If they didn't know Bluebells' family wealth, they would have assumed they were faux stones.
Finally, after a few moments, the man who had been greeted as Andy stretched and yawned, hiding his face in his elbow. "Let's get some sleep," he grunted, leaning his own seat back and sprawling out on it and the seat next to him - he was all long, skinny limbs. The other men mumbled their agreements, getting as comfy as they could on the tough Greyhound seats. Four of them fell asleep almost instantly, but Jinx kept awake for a moment longer, looking at the girl from across the bus. After a moment, he also relaxed and drifted off, a guitar pick pinned between two fingers on his left hand.

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