large grocery stores shopping gothic
(idk if anyone's done one yet; probably yes, so here's another one)
– You only dropped into this supermarket on your way to buy some thing you've entirely run out of. You emerge from the shelves two hours later, pale and shaking under the weight of the grocery piled up in your hands. You do not remember, what thing did you come for in the first place, nor where you were going. There is no thing in your memory outside of the supermarket; it has been absorbed by the gaping void. You check out and pay; there's a sudden bolt through your mind as you're bagging your groceries. You remembered it, that one thing you came here after!.. You look at the bags: you don't have it anywhere among your purchase. You have to go back for it. The store is not letting you go, not until you've paid it enough. – You came to that aisle looking for some detergent. There is no detergent in sight. You go through the aisle looking for one. When you come out of another end of the aisle, there is still no detergent in your shopping cart. It's filled with dog food in different flavours. You don't remember putting it there; you don't even own a dog. There is no dog food in this aisle, either. This store doesn't have animal food at all, or so do you recall, at least. – You have found the detergents aisle finally. The one you have always been using is not there. You ask the store worker if they will receive any this week. They tell you there will not be a receipt. The store does not sell any detergent of this mark. You clearly remember buying a bottle here just the last month. The store worker's smile gets wider and more strained. They do not sell this detergent mark, they assert. This store has never sold the detergent you always use. Nobody here have ever heard of this detergent mark. Is this a regional mark, maybe, they ask. Have you just recently moved there? The worker has never heard of the mark you have used, but they sure can recommend you a perfect analogous brand. You are not really sure anymore, what product you've used, if you have ever used it at all or how long you've been living here for. Still, you nod obediently to every offer and recommendation. You decide not to question it; it just feels so much easier and certainly safer this way. – There is a dried stain on the floor in the soft drinks section. Someone probably spilled a bottle of juice, you tell yourself. It doesn't looks like juice at all; it's all too thick and its stickiness somehow doesn't look like sugar sticky to you. You don't know how did you get to know that; you know that you do not want the answer. You speed up and walk past not turning your head and not looking at it again. The stain on the floor grows a tad bit larger behind your back; it's still very definitely dry. – There is no mayonnaise in this section, the store employee says. You have to look in the sauces and seasonings section. You go to the sauces and seasonings. There's no mayonnaise. You have to look for it in the canned goods section, the store employee tells you. You can't recall if this is a different employee from the first time; you can't really recall if there are different employees at all. Still, you walk to the canned goods section. There is no mayo in this section, the employee tells you. You are now positive this is the same employee you've seen before. You have to go look in the end of the store, between fast food and sale sections. You feel the floor slipping away from under your feet. You ask to see a merchandiser. The merchandiser is right there, just next to you. Her face is escaping your sight, but you're still pretty sure you have seen her before. The employee shakes their head at you ruefully. There is no mayo in this section, they repeat together with the merchandiser in haunting unison. This store has never seen any mayo. What is mayo, anyway? You're suddenly unable to remember the meaning to the word. What were you looking for, again?.. The store employee and the merchandiser stare at you with unblinking eyes. Their smiles are both perfectly dead and uncannily joyous. They ask if they can help you with anything else in an inhuman monotone. You dare not ask any more questions. – You come back to the store asking for a refund. The employees' faces are as unwaveringly polite as ever. You'll need to wait for just five more minutes, they say. There's always five more minutes. Wishing to be polite back, you wait for another half an hour. When the employee finally comes back, your patience is thinning out. You ask if you can see the store manager. They don't seem to have heard you. You repeat louder. The people at the counter don't look you in the eyes. The smiles fixed on their faces are slowly splitting their heads in half. You feel the ground tremble, and it grows louder, as if a monstrous vibration coming closer to you. Your impending doom is painfully obvious now. You look at the employees horrified; they do not look back and don't answer. You should have known better than to plead to the dead gods from the Great Beyond. – The trash can is outside, they say. There never were any trash cans inside the store. You sigh and try to push away the thought of a crumpled piece of paper in your back pocket, but it refuses to go away, it chooses to stay and haunt you with its presence. You look at the queue – there's only two people left in front of you. There's always only two more people left. The cashier's done scanning their goods and is putting them away into a plastic bag. Your look wanders off for a moment or two. When you look back, there's only two more people again. They're different two people from those you remember from the time you looked first. There only ever been two people, them and you, and the cashier scanning their goods and putting them away into bags. You are not sure if there are anyone else left in the universe. You are not sure anything else really exists. Time is an abyss; the great void is laughing at you. Its laughter sounds just like the scanning machine's beeps. – The crumpled paper still keeps on calling at you from the back pocket. You need to throw it away soon, or else. You finally give it up, excuse yourself and tell everyone you'll get out just for a second, please. You leave your shopping cart at the counter exactly for 25 seconds to find the nearest trash can and toss the paper into it. When you are back, your cart is no longer anywhere nearby. No one of the customers remembers it being here. No one remembers you standing in the queue. You call out to the cashier; she does not remember you either. It's not the same cashier you remember sitting there when you left. When did they manage to change? The cashier looks back at you with hollow eyes and her lips form a plea for help. The only sound escaping her mouth is her dead mechanical voice asking you to go to the end of the queue. – Anyway, you have to go fill your cart all again. That seems to be a problem. You don't remember half of the goods in your cart; you don't recall how or why the other half got into it. You think there was once a shopping list. Its vague image floats at the outskirts of your memory, the shards of product names echoing through your mind. Your search through your pockets without much hope, knowing there is no list left; you've thrown it away back at the counter. That was all a lure and now you're trapped. You don't feel scared, though; quite honestly, you don't feel like caring much at all. You have long lost the sense of purpose; all that is left is the store. It will not let you out. The store wants you inside, it wants you to be the part of it. You do not know how many hours have passed, what time is it, is there time anymore, is there anything left outside. The store has devoured it all. You look ahead with a glazed stare and keep pushing your cart down the aisles.
