I hate shopping in the supermarket. It's too public a place, and for someone like me who's recognized almost everywhere I go, public places are my least favorite places. I usually put on a hat and maybe some sunglasses if it's a sunny day, but somehow these people still find me. The ones who have watched The Program over and over. Who could recite the order in which the contestants died. The ones who have memorized my face, on the off-chance of meeting me somewhere to talk about my performance, or my relationship with Connor. Or what it's like to murder someone else.
I don't understand what allure they find in The Program. Honestly, I think it all boils down to a lack in self esteem. These people desperately ask what it's like to be at war, to fight for your life. How does it feel? It fucking SUCKS. Distrust and paranoia are your new best friends, because your old best friends are now shooting at you. Sleep becomes a liability, and sanity a hindrance. These people don't actually want to be in The Program. They want a romanticized version that's portrayed on the television. They want the grandeur of claiming a life, or the honor of dying after giving everything you have. They want to feel like they're worth something. I've tried to tell these people many times before – The Program doesn't justify your existence. It's not some all knowing, omnipotent, enlightening experience. It's cold blooded murder. And if you're the lucky one who's alive when the bullets stop flying and the blood stops flowing, then all you're able to feel is emptiness. Just overwhelming loneliness. And guilt. The guilt never seems to go away.
Food shopping is a necessary evil. After all, I have to eat. And food won't magically appear inside my refrigerator. I've tried services to do the shopping for me, and I enjoyed that for a while. It severely cut down on meetings with curious strangers. But even with my government stipend, I couldn't keep up with the steep price for the groceries, tuition for my self defense classes, as well as paying for my college education. Cutting corners never hurt anyone, and so I do my own shopping. I wash my laundry in the Laundromat. I buy clothes in Wal-Mart when they're on sale. There's nothing wrong with saving money.
I'm examining some of the oranges. The ones in the orange mesh bag are cheaper, but they all appear bruised, and some have mold growing on them. The individual oranges look huge, but they're probably mostly rind, and I don't like paying extra for food. I can get oranges next week. I push the cart along, moving on to the bunches of bananas. They're on sale, so I stock up, knowing that I'll go through fifteen bananas in a week. They're the perfect snack between classes or on the bus ride back to my tiny apartment, or after my self defense class is finished.
I grab a bag of white grapes, whose name I never understood because they're clearly green, and leave the fruit produce aisle. I've finished a good majority of my shopping, since I mostly eat fruits and vegetables these days. I've recently had trouble keeping meat inside my system (still not sure why) and deli meats are always so expensive. I'm no where near a vegetarian, but the fruits and veggies are much cheaper and help me keep up my energy. I walk down the soup aisle, stopping by the ramen and piling the dried noodles into my carriage. These things are cheap as hell, and they fill me up. They're loaded with salts, but I drink enough water so that doesn't matter.
My carriage jerks slightly, and the sound of an impact reaches my ears. I quickly eye the items in my carriage, and see that nothing is damaged.
"I'm very sorry, miss." A low male's voice sounds close to me, "I lost control for a minute-"
I stare up at him from under my baseball cap and as I do, he stops immediately. His eyes widen instinctively, and then his face droops to a very familiar apathetic stare. I study the man before me, examine the way his eyes narrow, notice how his mouth purses in anxiety. I've seen this cold expressionless face before. And then I realize it.
Boy #22, one of the major contenders. His name was Jeff. I never had to face him in battle, but I do remember stumbling into his presence with Connor. He was curled into a tiny ball, allowing the icy rain to fall upon his huddled figured, sobbing without reserve. That scene never made it to The Program's highlights, since the government doesn't want even their most successful killer to appear the slightest bit human. But Jeff's countless murders were all on the DVD set.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Jeff and I had to fight. He seemed to be an unorthodox and talented fighter, one I probably would have had trouble defeating. If Jeff hadn't freaked out and shot Connor when we found him, but instead had stayed around to fight, would I still be standing here, staring into the face of the boy's father?
The man opens his mouth to speak.
"Jeff…" I whisper.
He recoils like I've struck him. There is no doubt about it – this man is Jeff's father. The man's eyes wander around the scene, looking for any form of escape from my stare. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't force this man to continue with this torment. But for some reason, I just can't look away. I look at his face, my eyes asking all the questions for me.
Did you know that your son was suffering? Were you aware of just how damaged he was? You must have had some hint, some clue that something wasn't quite right. Or maybe there was nothing there for you to notice – your son was completely absent, wasn't he? He went to school, maybe had a part time job, and then came home and locked himself in his room. Did the fact that he had friends convince you that he was doing fine? That if we wasn't talking to you, he must have been talking to, confiding in, someone else?
But that's not the case, was it? He was completely alone. He killed his friends without a second thought. The boy was constantly crying out in pain – were you too busy to notice? Did you not care? How does it feel to know that your son is a murderer? Are you ashamed? Are you thankful that The Program didn't release our last names so that no one will know Jeff was your son? Or do you still grieve him, knowing that somehow you played some role in his isolation? He killed 13 other people out there on the battlefield. He killed them and justified every death, because he was suffering.
Can you feel his pain now that he's gone?
"Honey, I finally found those crackers…" a woman approaches us, looking over at Jeff's father. When she receives no response, she finally glances at me as if she was completely unaware that I was standing there as well. It takes a minute, Jeff's mother staring at me, recognizing my face from somewhere but not quite sure from where. And when it finally clicks, it hits her hard. The bright yellow box of crackers slips from her hands and clatters to the tiled floor.
"Oh…" It sounds more like a moan than some sound of recognition. One of her hands stops on her bosom, like she's trying to prevent her heart from bursting out of her chest. Her other hand covers her mouth before some horrific scream can escape her lips.
"Excuse me." I say weakly and maneuver my way around them. I walk down the entire aisle without turning back. The sound of soft stifled sobs reaches my ears as I reach the far end and turn the corner. I push the carriage over to the checkout, and am exceptionally relieved as a new register opens just as I approach. All I want to do is escape this supermarket. An overweight woman sees the open space and tries to force her carriage over and cut me off. I plow my carriage directly into the side of hers and when she opens her fat mouth to complain, a single harsh stare quiets her immediately. I don't know if she has recognized me or not, but at this point it doesn't matter.
The teenager running the register must be new, because he has to look up all the produce codes for my fruits and vegetables. He also must be trying to break the record for the slowest ring-up in the history of the store, because he seems to be moving in slow motion. He finally finishes and reads off the price. I hand him the money and watch him as he counts out the change – three times. Finally satisfied, he hands me the money, just as another stifled cry reaches my ears. I see him raise his eyes to the sight that everyone in the store must be staring at – the woman trying to hide the fact that she's crying her eyes out, and the blank stare of the man standing with her.
I refuse to turn my head. I bolt for the door, not caring how ridiculous I look. The automatic doors swing open and the fresh air welcomes me. I take a deep breath and then another, just for good measure. I pull the bags of groceries from my carriage and leave it off to the side. I glance along the street and jog across it toward the bus stop.
I will never shop in that supermarket ever, EVER, again.
