Hope

The bag itself screamed rich, leather; soft as butter dyed a deep amber. It was like a holdall but smaller, two handles. Basically what wealthy people took to the gym only it wasn't monogrammed and didn't smell like crappy men's eau de toilette. It smelt new, brand new, and it was at least half full and that's why I had no problem sliding it over from under the seat in front of me and casually picking it up as I walked off the bus. Well that and I also thought whoever left it didn't seem to have much use for the contents anymore, otherwise why leave it? Really, they were just asking for trouble. It somehow did not occur to me the damn thing could’ve been a bomb or something until I was about to open it. Literally the second my hand touched the gold zip. Right then was the moment my brain clicked. What were you supposed to do with unattended luggage on a crowded bus? Report it to the police or pick it up? Dumb and Dumber both shouldve all been played by me right then. So I hesitated, for a minute just holding the cool metal between my fingertips. Was it too late to not open the bag? Did I hear any ticking noises from inside? No and no. I let go. I put the bag down carefully on the concrete of the underground parking lot I was currently in. Home sweet home. The only place sort of warm enough and dry enough to set up for the night, I'd found a little spot away from the cameras and close enough to the stairs to make a quick getaway if anyone started poking around my humble abode and set up camp. Looking at the fancy bag next to the old ratty sleeping bag and musty pillow I called a bed I figured a bomb might actually be an improvement.

It wasn't always like this, I used to be the girl that wouldn't look twice at a bag like that left on the bus. Hell I would usually never get the bus. I once had my own car, my own house, rented but something to call my own. But things changed, people weren’t who they said they were and friends are fickle, even the ones who promise they'll always be there for you get tired of having a couch surfer after enough time. Well that's unfair, friends can only tolerate so much, for so long. And the things that had led me to where I was weren’t the type of things that get fixed with a magic wand. Some things just stayed broken. I was one of those things. Don’t get me wrong I’d done all the work, gone to all the therapists, worked through my daddy issues and addictive traits and took the anxiety medication. But sometimes that's not enough. Sometimes things just don’t go right ever. There's a worldwide plague, you lose your job and your place and turns out your partner knows how to hide bruises. And you get the plague and your test costs an arm and a leg and you get fined for going to that party that you didn't even want to go to in the first place, and masks are expensive ok. And the anxiety kicks in. You move out. You need temporary relief. You become transitory. You learn that actually life is a lot better at the bottom of a bottle. Even better after a few pills. And that's it, you're basically done for. All the hard work. All the milestones and proud moments; gone. So what’s the point trying anymore?

I sat down next to the bag, grabbed the zip, took a deep breath and squeezed my eyes shut. I pulled. The zip made that satisfying noise as it smoothly slipped all the way open. No KABOOM, that's good. I opened one eye, and then the other. And proceeded to freak out. Like really freak out. There was money in the bag. Only money. A lot of money. More money than I’d probably ever seen in one place ever in my life. And I had stolen it. Prize moron that I was, I had stolen a bag of money. Publicly. Whoever had left a random bag of money lying around had to have someone following it or a tracker or something. And I had just casually led them straight back to my ‘place’. Fuck. Well on the bright side it wasn't a bomb. I wasn't going to die instantaneously in the form of pink mist. No, I was probably going to have my kneecaps introduced to some baseball bats and swim with the fishes. Or whatever mobsters do nowadays. Great. I had to be proactive. This was a very real threat to my very poor existence and I was not having it. I re-zipped the bag and heaved it into my arms as I started to run. Up the stairs to the left, across the parking lot, not really caring about the cameras and through to the pedestrian exit. I was dizzy by the time I burst into the fresh air. Cardio not being exactly my thing. Oh and the lack of food for the last 18 hours of course. I scanned the surroundings quickly and dashed over the road to the bus stop.it was night and there was no-one around, even the streetlights were tired. But I wasn't taking chances. All I had to do was put the bag under the seat and I could wash my hands of this whole ordeal. I dumped the bag like it was filled with spiders and did a quick jog back across the street. But then I paused. My hand lingering on the push bar of the parking garage. I was cold, and hungry, and that money could mean everything to me. I could start over, move back home. Back to my sister. I could start to heal. I turned around.

By the time I got back to my little set up in the corner I was shivering, being malnourished and all it was hard to keep warm nowadays so I got into my sleeping bag and pulled the extra hoodie I had bundled up in there over my head. It was time to get serious. I opened the bag for the second time that night and upended it. Cash bundles held together with elastic bands tumbled out. One sliced through my knuckle with the burn of the worst type of papercut as it came out. Blood welled and I put it in my mouth savouring the warmth on my actually freezing finger. I looked at the pile of money, I couldn't tell how much was in them but I wasn't interested in that just yet. There was something else in the bag, it laid on top of the money looking innocent. It was a little black book. There was an elastic keeping it closed and it was soft to the touch. I'd had one of these before. When I used to write. When I felt like I had something worthwhile to say. That seemed like so long ago. I slowly slid my finger under the black elastic and sprung it back from the cover. I don't know what I expected but a blank book was not it. Creamy white pages shuffled through my fingers reminding me of how much I'd loved that new paper feel. The moleskine logo on the inside confirming it was the exact same type I'd used to own. I looked closer. It wasn't completely blank. Write your own story. Written in smooth flowing cursive, tiny at the top right of the cover. Write your own story. I ran my finger over the inscription. Was that what this was? An act of kindness? Someone somewhere giving a lifeline out to a complete stranger? Did people still do that? Was there still that kind of paying it forward mentality out there? Was I just too cynical and there was actually a group or even one person who still believed in people enough to risk this amount of money, and never really get to see a return? Maybe. I re-examined the bag, no pen. I laughed. The laugh of what could have been. The laugh that starts deep in your belly and comes out sour because of course there was no pen.

I counted the money. Holding my cut finger out like a lady drinking high tea I placed the bundles back in the bag until I got to twenty. Twenty bundles, all the same. I took one out and began leafing through. Fifty notes. Fifty twenty dollar notes in twenty bundles. Twenty thousand dollars. How many things could be done with that amount of money the mind boggles. I zipped up the bag and held it tight, zipped safely in the sleeping bag I looked around at the lit car park. Twenty thousand dollars and I’d never have to see this place again. My stomach churned at the possibilities. And then something caught my eye. Over by the wall about six feet away, just under a pipe was something metal. I don't know what drew me to it but I went over. I picked it up and stared. A pen. I knew what I had to do. I reached under my pillow and retrieved the book. I opened on the first page and put the pen on the paper. Taking a deep breath. In, and out. I began to write.

Years later once the third book I took that bag back to where I had found it. It didn't look as alluring as the first day I saw it but I was sure of its potential. I had another little black book, bought new and another pen, this time attached to the book. I had another twenty thousand dollars. I walked off that bus feeling a new person. My gloved hands free and the sun shining on my face. I watched as a girl quickly changed seats to where I had been sitting and reached down casually under the seat. Hopefully she wouldn't call the cops either.