Groceries

At 9:30am, you decide that you are hungry.  You aren't, but you decide that you are, because the other option is admitting that you may possibly be developing an eating disorder.  You have studiously avoided thinking about this for several months now because you know where it will lead, and it's much easier to simply wander down to the fridge a dozen times a day and stare at the shelves full of garbage in hopes that something interesting will appear.  When it doesn't, you mindlessly stuff something into your mouth, tell yourself that you've repaired the hunger that never assailed you and move on with your life.

So you stare at the fridge, and this time nothing stares back.  Inedible leftovers, ingredients that won't coagulate into a meal, bits and pieces and oddments and expired junk that you shouldn't have bought in the first place, but you did.

You realize that you need to go grocery shopping.

Immediately thereafter, you set about convincing yourself that you do not, in fact, need to go grocery shopping.  You don't.  Surely you don't.  Surely you bought enough last time.  Isn't that what you said to the cashier, with that submissive grimace on your face, making appeasement gestures while you tried to blunder your way through this single instant of enforced social contact:  "Haha," you remember saying, no more a real laugh than a housecat is a lion, "With this many groceries, I should be done for the rest of my life.  I'm prepared for the zombie apocalypse now."  And then you winced, too visibly, as you remembered that normal people don't prepare for the zombie apocalypse.  That is a joke for another place, another time.  You slid your eyes sideways at the cashier to see if he noticed.  He did, but said nothing.  And you hung your head and went on your way again, defeated.

No.  You definitely do not need to go grocery shopping.  Surely there was that can of something-or-other in the back of the pantry.  It looked edible, didn't it?  Rotel.  You like tomatoes.  You briefly consider what items from the fridge could be dumped into a can of Rotel to create something vaguely edible.

You need to go grocery shopping.

But you aren't even hungry.  You know that, on a logical level.  You manage to wrestle yourself out of the kitchen, forcefully sit yourself down in a chair and busy your hands with something mundane.  Needlework.  Mindless counting, endless repetitive motions.  It's your equivalent to Xanax, because you tell yourself you aren't bad enough to need medication.  Besides, part of the problem is that you're an unreliable flake.  You're just going to be unreliable with the medicine like you are with everything else in your life.  Why bother to pay for a prescription you'll invariably forget to take?  Better to soothe the soul with hours of knit-purl-k2tog-yarn-over, endless and meaningless and safe.

But within an hour, the fidgeting is back.  You walk the fridge, open it, stare inside at nothing again.  Still nothing.  You don't know why you had to check, but you did.  You need to go grocery shopping.

Resolute, you decide to make the most of it.  You armor yourself for the occasion: the largest, lumpiest sweater in your closet, the baggiest pair of jeans, a headband to cover your hair.  You wish you could get away with wearing sunglasses, but pride won't allow.  You check your pocket three times to make sure that your debit card is in place.  Other people have nightmares of showing up to their high school reunion half-clothed.  You have nightmares about getting to the checkout line with a cart full of groceries and no debit card.  The idea of having to stand there, exposed in the middle of a store with undeniable ownership of the cart brimming with filth-food, makes your palms begin to sweat.  You check your card again.  Still there.  That debit card is your lifeline.  As long as it is in your pocket, you can blaze through the checkout.  No one will have any excuse to look at your cart, to see those supposedly-food items strewn out on the counter like so much dirty laundry on the line.  You tell yourself that you'll be in and out, just a quick trip.

When you get to the parking lot, there is a car in your space.  You always park in the same space so you won't forget where you've parked.  And now there's this sporty little red thing parked neatly in your spot, daring you to step outside your comfort zone.  You pull into a nearby spot and watch it for a few minutes, hoping the owner will come, hoping someone will move it so you can have your piece of consistency.  The owner does not come.  You choose an equivalent spot (also north of the cart station, but one aisle over from your chosen spot) and park your car.  You check your pocket again.  Debit card is still in place.  You get out and lock the doors to your car.  You retrieve a cart from the pen so that you don't create extra work for whatever poor employee has to go retrieve those carts in the cold.  Wouldn't want them to be upset.  Wouldn't want to make more work for them.  Squaring your shoulders, you prepare for the sensory barrage.

It begins before you even enter the store.  A man in one of those wheelchair/shopping-cart combinations is parked in front of the "enter" door.  He isn't blocking the door, but you will have to walk uncomfortably close to him to go inside.  Or you could walk through the "exit" door and risk the irritable glance from the greeter once you get inside.  Or worse, someone could be walking out the exit door, obeying the rules, and you could have a grocery aisle moment with them, trying to decide who will turn aside and who will continue walking along their path.  You waver between the two, deciding.  You skirt wide around the man in the shopping cart, trying to make sure you do not invade his personal space.  He looks at you, evaluating.  You can't read his expression, so you give him that same submissive grimace/smile and nod your head the slightest amount, trying to appear congenial.  You suspect that you mostly look nauseous.  He continues to give you that same expression, veiled but strangely intense.  You realize you are still smiling at him.  It has probably been too long.  How long are smiles supposed to last?  Have you offended him?  What if he thinks you're only smiling because he's in a wheelchair?  What if he thinks this is pity?  Do you think you're better than him because you're not in a wheelchair?  No!  You just wanted to go through the entrance door because you wanted to avoid a potential confrontation with someone coming out the exit door, and now you've probably scarred this handicapped man for life.  He has stopped looking at you.  Maybe he was never looking at you in the first place.  You wonder if he is offended.  You clutch the handle of your shopping cart and repeat to yourself that you meant no offense; you meant no offense.

The first thing you see when you walk through the doors is the holiday shelf.  Pounds and pounds, maybe a TON, vast quantities of canned pumpkin, stuffing mix, gravy powder and indulgent treats of every kind.  You turn your head in the opposite direction and force yourself to study the floral bouquets, lest someone think you're contemplating buying those treats.  Carefully, you pick your way over to the produce section.  You have to constantly avert your eyes from everything.  The worst are other people.  You watch the floor studiously, paying attention to shadows, paying attention to movement in your peripheral vision.  When a person approaches, you put them on your mental radar and track their progress around your body, a million Medusas to turn you to stone if you catch their gaze.  So you watch their feet, their knees, certainly nothing above the knees, watch the wheels of their shopping carts so you'll know where to aim your own.  You can feel eyes watching you, that prickle on the back of your neck.  You know that it is imagined.  You desperately hope that it is imagined.  But you feel them, true or otherwise, and you turn your shoulders down that fraction of a percent more, just in case they need a show of humility.  You aren't here to rock the boat.  You aren't here to cause a scene.  You just want groceries.  You push your buggy with half-blind determination until you see the bottom of the produce rack.

Here, you are safer.  You can lift your eyes above knee level to inspect the goods, visually tasting every leaf on each head of lettuce if someone gets to close.  Instead of averting your gaze downward, you focus intently on each blushing red apple, polishing them to a glossy glow with your eyes until the threat has passed.  You fill the most visible parts of your cart with produce: radishes, bananas, honeydew, butternut squash, kale, avocado, peppers, mushrooms, tomatillos, zukes and cukes and out of season asparagus.  Produce area exhausted, you round the corner to canvas the frozen foods, pulling out a dozen frozen meals under 300 calories and stacking them strategically in your cart for maximum visibility.  "I belong to a responsible, healthy, sane and well-adjusted person who cares about the food they eat," you want your cart to announce to anyone who looks.  Everyone looks.  You look at theirs, almost compulsively.  You calculate the contents of strangers' carts to pad your own ego.  You bought more kale than they did.  They probably lead an unfulfilled life.  They had the audacity to put two cans of pumpkin pie mix in their cart, brazen and bold in the raised area where infants sit.  Are they trying to make a statement?  Are they proud enough of their healthy body that they can revel in their pumpkin pie, broadcasting to the entire world that they intend to eat something drenched in calories because some calendar has decided that a holiday is approaching?  You shun them.  You do not even look at their feet.  They are probably gloating about their ability to wear their groceries so proudly in their cart.  You don't want to see it.  It will just make you upset.

You round the corner again and begin the serpentine weave from one aisle to the next.  You know your shopping list.  You know none of it is on this aisle, and you briefly consider skipping over it.  You buy the same items every time you shop.  You know where they are located and how much they cost.  You could skip to the next item on the list and save yourself the time it takes to carefully walk down two aisles.  But you aren't feeling up to it today.  Instead, you hug your way along each aisle, shoulder almost pressing against the shelving so that you have maximum distance from the other shoppers.  You inspect the cereal boxes with almost-religious fervor whenever someone approaches your field of vision.

You make the mistake of looking up when someone pulls into your aisle, and by some terrible mistake, you see her face.  She is an old woman, her face well-wrinkled.  She is wearing a knit hat, obviously hand-made, yellow.  A few pieces of hair have escaped the confines of this hat.  You fight back the urge to cry, to vomit.  You freeze stock-still, unable to make eye contact with this woman but unable to look away, either.  Like a mouse watching a snake approach, your only option is to lock your limbs and pray that she passes you by.  In your head, a madhouse has been set loose.  You remember another old woman, another hand-knit hat with dark hair poking out around the edges, sticking through the stitches in some places.  You remember hearing her scream at you, seeing flecks of spittle leap from her mouth during that endless tirade.   You remember your back pressed against the cold wall of his bedroom as his mother screamed and screamed and screamed, remember looking at the face of her infant grandson propped on her hip while she screamed, remember how that grandson cried like he was dying every time he saw you from that point on.  You remember your fists clenched so tightly in terror that your nails bit perfect crescents into the meat of your palms, crescents that took days to fade completely.  You remember needing to leave, needing to escape, needing him to protect you from his mother while she screamed.  You remember seeing him with his head under the covers, remember the words, "No no no, why are you doing this?  Why is this happening?" as he let her scream at you.  You realize that you are grinding your teeth as if you could masticate the memory and swallow it down, as if you could force back the betrayal and the terror of that moment.  The old woman in the yellow hat picks up a box of instant white rice and puts it in her cart.  She leave the aisle.  You realize you are shaking slightly even though your back is ramrod straight and your legs are stiff, ready to bolt.  You risk a quick glance over your shoulder to see which way the woman went and bulldoze your own cart in the opposite direction.  You pray she doesn't realize she's forgotten something and return to a previous aisle.  You pray that she moves only in one direction through the grocery store, like a sensible person.  You shake off the lingering trauma, put the terror back in its box and make the daring decision to skip two aisles to put more padding between yourself and the hat woman.  You didn't need anything on those aisles.  You can get it later. Later, when old women don't wear hand-made hats with tiny strands hair sticking through the stitches.

You make your way through the store, creating a ring of healthy items around the outside edges of your cart.  Your shopping trip has morphed from a marathon into a sprint.  You can feel the panic rising in the back of your head, a rolling tide of anxiety that will drown your ability to function.  You allow yourself the briefest of moments to contemplate what it would be like to have a panic attack in the middle of this store, and the idea is terrifying enough to sober you.  The panic subsides briefly.

You are reaching for a can of corn when the alarm begins.  It is authoritative, intimidating.  It is not a cell phone.  It is not even a shoplifter alert.  This is reminiscent of elementary school fire drills, everyone stay calm, single file, duck under the smoke, stopdropandroll.  You freeze, corn forgotten.  The risk of the alarm is greater than the risk of the other shoppers, and you snap your gaze to their faces, looking for a reaction that makes sense.  Do we flee?  Is this normal?  You can feel the adrenaline in your veins and you look to see its echoes on the faces around you.  No one else seems to care.  You wonder, briefly, if you have imagined this alarm.  You wonder if you have crossed the line from a bit nutty into genuine psychosis.  You want to ask, "Am I hallucinating?" but you daren't.  If you are, they'll all know.  You can't allow yourself that public weakness.  So you put on a brave face and grab your can of corn and put it in your shopping cart as if nothing is happening, except every move is underscored by the knowledge that something IS happening, that an alarm is sounding and you have no idea why.  Bomb threat?  Approaching tornado?  It doesn't sound quite right for a fire.  The shrill tones are too spaced out, too regular.  Bomb threat, you're sure of it.  As soon as you've made up your mind, the intercom crackles.  "Employees and customers, do not be alarmed.  This is just a drill."  You want to inform the intercom that you are already alarmed, that you will stay alarmed until the drill ceases, that it is awfully presumptuous to tell people how to feel over an impersonal, public medium like a paging system, but you tuck your canned corn into the bottom of your cart and abandon the grocery area altogether.  You are so close to the end of the ordeal.  Two more items and you'll be safe.  The alarm subsides.

You make your way to the pharmacy area, doubling back several times.  Once, you turn aside because you think you can see the lady with the hat disappearing around the next corner, and your heart leaps painfully enough that you turn onto the nearest aisle (children's toys, safe).  When you make your way out, you have to weave a circuitous route through the pharmacy items to avoid the other human beings.  In the grocery aisles, you only need to avoid looking at their faces, at their bodies.  Here in the pharmacy area, you cannot even enter the aisle if another human being is on it.  They might think you are buying something.  They might think you are here for something else.  If they think that you are here for an item that you aren't here for, they might judge you for something horrible.  Worse, if they realize your actual target, they may attempt to talk to you about it.  Mortifying!  So you circle the area like an anxiety-ridden vulture, waiting for the hyenas to leave so you can pick at the proper carcass.  Finally, the aisle is free.  You dart in.

Foiled.  They have too many choices, and not enough time to read the labels before someone else arrives.  You squat in the aisles, flipping the boxes over so you can peer at the ingredients lists, comparing between a half dozen options.  You should have checked the inventory online before you came.  You should have planned your shopping list more carefully, should have known which brand you need, which flavor.  You grab a box of Slimfast shakes, two boxes, and stack them in the center of your cart.  You glance quickly over your shoulder, not furtively, naturally, to see if anyone is observing you.  All clear.  You spread the healthy items over the protein shakes like a shield, blocking them from view.  At a glance, your cart is full of health food, but not diet food.  Kale and cabbage and cantaloupe aplenty, but no protein shakes, no meal replacement bars, nothing that anyone could object to.  You barrel toward the checkout line, feeling the anxiety mounting again, feeling the prickle of exposure slithering down your spine again.  You survey the checkout lines and find the one with the fewest total items.  More customers, but less time to wait, and at this point, you just need to get out of here.  You throw your items onto the conveyor belt with panicked motions, no care for which items go next to each other.  Paper or plastic, anything.  Debit or credit, whatever's faster.  You blaze through the process until the total price blinks on the screen.

You know a moment of dull panic.  You've lost your debit card, you just KNOW you have.  Your fingers dig frantically in your pocket, searching between various membership cards and old receipts.  Finally, you manage to produce the black card with the silver magnetic strip, and you can feel your body tangibly relax when you pass it to the cashier   She makes polite commentary and you return it, numb and deaf and blind to everything except the escape routes with their convenient red "EXIT" signs.  You live for "EXIT" signs.  EXIT means safety.  You pocket the receipt in case a greeter challenges you when you exit the building and bolt free from the doors, all momentum and panic focused toward your parking spot.

Your car is not in your parking spot.  You know a brief moment of horror before you see it parked on the next aisle over, exactly where you left it.  You swing your buggy toward it and lower your head like a charging bull, cart careening toward the safety of your vehicle.  You unlock the doors, perform a quick inspection: no one under the car, no one in any of the seats, no one in the floorboards, no one in the trunk.  You rip the doors open and pile the groceries high, heedless of fragile eggs and malleable bread.  You all but throw your shopping cart into the pen and leap back into the driver's seat, locking the door so the shopping experience can't follow you home.  You check the rear-view mirror to ensure that your groceries are still there, and your right hand checks your debit card for the millionth time.  You see the woman with the hat in the parking lot, loading baby formula and dog food into her trunk.  You bare your teeth at her in a wolfish smile from behind the locked door, safe and victorious.  You have survived.  You have provided for yourself.  You will not starve today.  When you get home, you feast to celebrate your success, your miraculous escape.  You remember that you are not even hungry, but you do not care.  You have won, defeated the system.  You are safe and whole and home again, with groceries in your fridge as a hedged bet against starvation.  You will see another sunrise.  Death cannot touch you when you are safe at home with groceries in your fridge.

Pieces

 "You're late, OBSESSION," HELPLESSNESS commented.

OBSESSION gave her a level glare but didn't deign to speak.

SIMPLICITY tugged on DESPAIR's sleeve. "I thought maybe this time..."

"You always think 'maybe this time.' It's what you do." DESPAIR ran comforting hands through SIMPLICITY's hair, more to calm herself than to benefit SIMPLICITY.

SIMPLICITY nodded solemnly. She seemed to grow smaller with every step OBSESSION took, as if his presence diminished hers.

"Will we never be rid of this filth?" DIGNITY, at least, knew perversion when he saw it. His lip was curled in aristocratic disdain, brow furrowed, eyes cold.

OBSESSION mirrored the gesture, showing off his yellowing leopard fangs. "I am not beholden to you. Your words fall flat."

"So you say," PRIDE acknowledged. "And yet you're here. Again. You're always here."

OBSESSION pivoted slowly. "Of course I'm here. Where else would I be? The cancer has no incentive to leave the body. You feed me so well." He made an exaggerated gesture of licking his paw. "You know what they say about stray cats. Feed us once and we'll never go away."

SIMPLICITY touched INNOCENCEs skin, running her hand comfortingly down the dragon-creature's spine. "He'll be gone soon." The weak ones curled in the corner together -- DESPAIR comforting SIMPLICITY, SIMPLICITY comforting INNOCENCE, HELPLESSNESS rocking in place, NOSTALGIA trying to disappear.

"Gone? SIMPLICITY, I have never been 'gone.' Not that I'd expect you to understand. I'm a predator; you're prey. You 'go.' I simply wait."

"So why are you here now?" PRIDE, the voice of reason. Unreasonable reason, but he tried. He was the closest they had. Reason wrapped in rage.

"I got tired of waiting, and the prey looked vulnerable." OBSESSION studied his claws, then glanced up at SIMPLICITY and INNOCENCE. Both shivered.

DIGNITY stood. "We have no use for you here. You corrupt. You invade. You degrade. You weaken us all."

"I do."

"Then leave." NOSTALGIA only whispered. That was all NOSTALGIA ever did. Whisper, whine, cry, dream. "Just leave. We're stronger without you."

OBSESSION turned on her, smiling. "You, dollchild, wouldn't even exist without me. You are made of your broken edges. You are the pain that I made for you. I sewed you up very nicely, I think. And PRIDE, you would have been unnecessary if I hadn't been there. Why would she need the backbone if she didn't have the cancer?"

"Everyone needs a spine," said PRIDE.

"A sarcastic, derisive spine, the very model of-- oh, what was his name?"

"Avvie."

"Avvie. Darling Avvie. Gwen's Avvie."

"Irrelevant. She would have needed me either way. Everyone needs a spine."

"Such a shame she doesn't have one. She has you, and you'll suffice in a pinch, but.... really. You do know you're not fooling anyone, right? You know, it's amusing. The closest thing she has to a spine is... well, it's me."

DIGNITY's arm clenched in anger, and PRIDE's hind claws dug into the dirt.

"It's true, though. Protest it if you must. But look at her growth. When has the girl grown the most? Was it when she was strong already, or...?"

"It was when she was broken," DESPAIR said. "When the world spat on her, she stood. Really stood, not that hunching, hiding thing that she does when you're around."

"And when the world stopped spitting, she backed down," OBSESSION finished. "But look. When she obsessed, when she was consumed, she was strong. Her weakness was her strength. Who loves like the desperate? Who gives like the needy? Who heals like the irreparably wounded? I corrupted her, fine, but I also built her. Without my whip and spur, she barely moves. And yes, I lead her to the slaughter every time, but at least I lead her SOMEWHERE. Do you? Do any of you?"

The others were silent.

Then, "I lead her," said NOSTALGIA, stubborn.

"You lead her back. You lead her into her own head, into madness, into a past that she will never reclaim. You yearn for the thing that broke you. You lead her in circles, fixated on the moment when you realized what I had made. No matter what path you take, you go back to where I led her first. You're a consequence of me. Even when you lead her, I lead YOU."

"I lead her," said DIGNITY. "I lend her strength."

"You let her stand. But I make her RUN."

"You make her run away!" INNOCENCE protested.

"At least she's running somewhere."

"You think this is a game. You think this is just a silly little tea party, and you want to be the hostess. Is that it?" PRIDE flattened his ears against his head, nostrils flared.

LUST slipped out of the shadows, languid grace. "I lead her."

OBSESSION offered her a toothy grin. "You do. You lead her into temptation. I approve."

"Of course you do. You, of all people, can't resist temptation," she purred.

"Ah, but you only lead her one way. You only lead her deeper, deeper. I can push her in any direction. I can set my sights on any goal and ride her until she runs there."

"You subjugate her," DIGNITY corrected.

"I do. And it works. What is it that you love to say, PRIDE? If it was weak enough... Oh, you know the one."

"If it was weak enough to be broken, it doesn't deserve to be protected," PRIDE repeated dully.

"And if she is weak enough to be ridden?"

"Then you will ride her, as you've proven. You can conquer her at will. What game to that? What pleasure? You've won. Why do you play with the broken doll?"

OBSESSION curled up on the floor, tail swishing. "I've always loved the broken edges."

"Searching for the empty people; the broken edges and the frozen things," THE PUPPETEER intoned from above. The words were habit, not commentary.

DIGNITY stood. "Is THAT what this is about? Your petty little games? Did she find her words because you-- Because of your actions?"

OBSESSION laughed. "Can't find a motivation? Little one, she found her words because she had nothing else. She has always found her words when she had nothing else. It's what she does. And broken edges are drawn to broken edges. Look at her loves. She was broken. He was broken. It's what they do. I didn't have to lead her to the words. I didn't have to lead her to the subject matter. And I don't have to keep her writing."

"But we all want her to write."

"Mm. For now. But if I change my mind..."

"If you change your mind," said DIGNITY, "we will kill you."

"If you could kill me, I would be a thousand times dead by now, petty lordling. Your ambition, your fire, it's.... cute. But I have claws."

"Please. Let her find the words again. Don't take the words from her." NOSTALGIA, the only one bold enough to speak and weak enough to beg.

"She's found them."

"Don't take them from her, then."

"And if the only thing that holds her to the words is my whip? Do you permit me to lead, little rabbit, if I lead her where you wish her to go?"

NOSTALGIA trembled. "Don't take them from her," she repeated.

"If you want her to write, YOU make her. Prove to me that you can lead her. Prove to me that she won't crumble into dust if I turn my back. Because for all that DIGNITY and PRIDE prance around, for all SIMPLICITY dreams and NOSTALGIA yearns and HELPLESSNESS screams, for all INNOCENCE hopes and LUST manipulates, none of you has yet moved to lead her. If I drop the ball, will you catch it? Any of you? Volunteers?"

"I will," said DIGNITY. "I will let her ignite."

"Ah! But she won't burn him. No fuel, no fire. What will you ignite, little lord? Herself? There's pitifully little there, as you well know. Very little left but us."

"I could burn myself."

OBSESSION snorted. "Ridiculous. You're barely strong enough to ignite her when she's drowning in lamp oil. In all seriousness, who would lead her?"

"I would," said HELPLESSNESS.

"You wouldn't!" PRIDE objected. "Better OBSESSION than you."

"Me? Really? You flatter me, PRIDE. Pleased to be better than someone. And yet... to my memory, you haven't attempted to exorcise HELPLESSNESS. I'm more desirable, but less welcome?"

"You're filth. She's just.... weak. Broken."

"Like the rest of you, then. Pity I wasn't a part of that. Oh wait -- I was. I'm the one who broke you."

"I will lead MYSELF," THE PUPPETEER shouted suddenly. She grew, towering over them all like little toys scattered across the ground. She plucked OBSESSION by the flesh on the nape of his neck, like a kitten. "As much as you like to believe otherwise, I hear you. As much as you would like to believe otherwise, I can fight you. And I will. I will not burn him. I will not crawl back to her. I will not drown, I will not burn, I will not crawl, I will not weep, I will WALK ON and all your spurs and whips and beatings cannot force me to run away instead. I have strength, which every last one of you lacks. And because of that sense of justice, I will be my own spine, and I will WALK ON."

And with that, she discarded them with a wave of her hand. She settled back into her chair and lifted her pen. "Words, you're all I have left. When everything else leaves, you wait. You SHINE. Shine now for me, words. I'll eclipse the world if you'll but glimmer. I will make you the brightest. If that requires me to extinguish every other light, I can do that. You should have been my guiding star all along. You should have been my compass. Now you will be."