Shrine of Betrayal

The bus sat like a tomb, tilted on the edge of the cracked freeway. Windows shattered, its faded yellow skin streaked with soot and time, it bore the scars of countless fires that had passed through like plagues. Inside, the seats sagged, upholstery split open and spilling foam like entrails. Rusted poles leaned at odd angles, and broken glass crunched under the weight of silence. The stale air hung heavy, choked with the haze of smoke that never seemed to lift—an endless twilight that clung to the carcass of the city.

Los Angeles had once promised dreams, but now it dreamed only of its own rot. The bus, abandoned and forgotten, became a shrine to that betrayal. The graffiti on its walls had long since faded, slogans of rebellion drowned out by the smog of corruption that had poisoned the land. The city’s decay was not sudden—it had begun decades ago, when elections ceased to be choices and became orchestrations, hollow rituals dressed up as freedom. Each stolen ballot, each silenced voice, each rigged tally was another nail in the coffin.

The mayor's, the so-called leaders, had not governed for the people but for the cartels that lined their pockets and bought their protection. Drugs flowed freer than clean water, and the bodies piled higher than the skyscrapers that once reached for heaven. No one had lifted a hand to stop it; the people had been lulled into apathy, anesthetized by propaganda and fear. And when the dream rotted, no one noticed until it was already too late.

Now the city lived only in memory, a husk that breathed smoke and coughed fire. Its streets were empty, save for the ghosts of choices not made. The bus sat in that silence, waiting, as if it too understood that nothing remained—no passengers, no destinations, no future. Just rust, smoke, and the memory of a dream that had killed itself.