Okay, the last few weeks have been weird, job stuff colliding with health stuff, colliding with school stuff. But fear not! I am back! So this story is growing a plot accidentally, and I haven't decided whether to write it as a separate story or to sprinkle this ongoing plot into here. If you have an opinion, mention in the comments below.
Can it be called light if every characteristic of light is absent? It is not bright, it is not warm, it does not clarify, does not illuminate, but obscures with a fuzziness dirtier than mist. It glints off of the cashier's nametag with the dullness of bone. I cannot read the letters.
The checkout stand is not tall and not short, just the wrong height to sit behind, but too short to hit the buttons on the cash register without leaning. My pack of microwave burritos (not real food, but not something I wouldn't eat either) slide along it. The cashier is neither present or absent, just someone with the ripple behind their eyes of a daydream they would entertain if they dared to hesitate for an instant when their supervisor was, not hovering, no, goodness no, just 'making sure everything was going smoothly'.
My card leaves a line in the skin as I clutch it tight, convincing myself that the tingling in my hands isn't numbness.
I can't see the ceiling.
The store feels full, but when I whip around, I am the only one there. The silence is an almost audible, deafening roar. My lungs struggle to pump in and out air that is too thick to really hold oxygen.
It is being torn away somehow, all of it. But behind the nothing, there is Something. Every breath is flooding into it, every buzz of a cooler, every flash of a light, every word on a tongue, leaving only the barest of scripts to follow in the vacuum.
"Will that be all?" I know it won't be. I wish it was. I take my bag. It has several items I am fairly sure I didn't put in my cart, and not in a 'how did I accidentally fill my entire backpack with trash' kind of way. I can't read the labels either. My eyes slide off of them as I try.
It is not far to to the exit, but it is not nearly short enough either. My boots give the dullest of thuds off of a floor that is somehow not plastic, or linoleum, or concrete. "Come again soon." It won't be soon. But it won't be nearly long enough. I don't look back, just halfheartedly raise a hand.
"Hey. What's the rush." The words are friendly, but the tone, the eyes hold nothing.
Sam.
"Does it seem to you like Jojamart doesn't belong here?" I blurt out.
He laughs without any humor. "Maybe retail just isn't for you. I find it quite liberating."
tucked into a crevice that is neither part of town or away from it, I clutch my bag closer with my quavering fingers, the tendons standing out sharply. It's almost like there is less flesh there, the bones jutting out more prominently...
"Yeah that's probably it."
I go home. I make dinner. I spit out a corroded tooth as I brush my teeth. I rinse the blood down the sink. I set my alarm, and crawl into bed. Anything else is a problem for another day.
