Saturday, March 18, 2017
Friday, March 3, 2017
I hate going to the grocery store, I mean really hate it. I just want to stay home, watch TV, and write. Lets be honest. I hate going anywhere. It’s not that I have some weird phobia. I would love if it was that simple. What I have is more sinister. I see how people die. I see people going about their regular lives, totally normal to everyone; but me. I see if it was natural, accident, self inflicted, whatever. I guess I brought it on myself. I use to wish I was a great writer. I wished for years. Then I had a accident. HA, I fell over the dog in the driveway. I woke up 3 days later with a splitting headache and tunnel vision. After a week and a battery of tests, I was fine. If you call this fine, when I see anyone, I see their body as it is when they die. Imagine someone who commits suicide by a gunshot to the head, walking around and interacting with people. No one else see’s it, but I do. I see the hole through the skull, while they make small talk. How about a accident, or disease. This is why I would rather stay home. Thankfully it doesn’t effect TV. Or I would really go crazy. So I stay home. Away from everyone, writing horror and mystery stories. I will admit, it does give me great ideas. Plus the eccentric recluse character makes my work sell better. But it isn’t worth it.
So I go when I have to, always looking at the ground, never making eye contact. I get a buggy, go around the store, then strait to the checkout. Luckily the lines are short at night, night means less people. I put my stuff on the belt as the cashier swipes my items across the scanner as I stare at the floor.
"Did you find everything okay?" she asks casually.
"Mm-hmm," I mumble to the floor. Her voice sounds nice. Pleasant. Curiosity wins over and I glance up. The cashier's head is dented in on the right side, blood streaming out her eye, nose, and ear. Probably a car accident. I snap my gaze back down towards the floor. After I pay, she gives back my change in a hand so mangled I'm surprised it can hold anything. Thanking her, I grab my bags and turn towards the exit.
Walking to the double doors, I see a man in a cowboy hat looking through magazines at the news stand. The skin on his face and hands is the consistency of a marshmallow that fell into a campfire. Burn victim. The older lady running the stand looked normal, except for her left eye and mouth were drooping. Stroke victim.
I get close to the door and see the greeter, a middle aged woman with a deep purple bruise surrounding her neck, her eyes bugged out and bloodshot. Death by hanging. I rush out the door as fast as I can. In my car I finally catch my breath as I lean my forehead on the steering wheel.
After a few minutes I look up and see my familiar reflection in the rear-view mirror: my ashen skin, dilated eyes, with a yellow foam dripping from the corner of my mouth. “Overdose”, I whisper.
Be Careful What You Wish For. Why did I ever wish?