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Representing_Tromba

Representing_Tromba

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Tempokai

Tempokai

The Overworked One
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A bedtime story about grocery lists.
Grocery List:

  1. Eggs
  2. Milk
  3. Bread
  4. Apples
  5. Butter
  6. Sugar
  7. Flour
  8. Cinnamon
  9. Ground beef
  10. Garlic
The cold fluorescent lights flickered above as you pushed the squeaky-wheeled cart down the grimy aisle. You hated this grocery store—the aisles were always too narrow, the music too loud, and the air always smelled faintly of something... off. But it was close to home, and you couldn’t exactly skip groceries again, could you? You tugged out your phone and glanced at the list your partner had sent.

Eggs.

You tossed a carton into the cart, noting the sticky, dried something coating its edge. You told yourself it was just a little old egg white, nothing worth freaking out about. As you turned the corner into the dairy aisle, you noticed how empty the store was tonight. No cashiers in sight. No other shoppers. Not even the usual slack-jawed stock boy who stared a little too long.

It was just you.

Milk.

You grabbed a carton of whole milk, ignoring the sound that echoed from the back of the cooler. Some clanging, maybe, like a can rolling across the floor. You shook your head. It was nothing. As you reached for the next item, you realized how eerily quiet it was now. The music that had grated on your nerves minutes ago had stopped. Silence stretched its tendrils into the empty aisles.

Bread.

The bread aisle was barren—stripped clean, save for one lonely loaf sitting in the middle of the shelf. Its packaging was slightly torn, as if someone had been in a hurry or had been interrupted. You hesitated, but hunger gnawed at you. You grabbed the loaf. The plastic crinkled unnervingly in the silence, and you could swear something moved in the corner of your vision. You whipped your head around.

Nothing. No one.

You laughed nervously. Of course, it was nothing. Just the fluorescent lights flickering again.

Apples.

You walked toward the produce section, heart beating a little faster. The apples gleamed unnaturally under the lights, like something waxy, too smooth to be real. As you reached for a Granny Smith, you felt something cold, clammy, brush against your hand. You yanked your hand back, only to realize there was nothing there—just the apples, too shiny, too perfect. You grabbed one and threw it in your cart.

That was when you noticed it. The smell.

Rotting, sour, sickening. You couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but it wrapped itself around you, clinging to your clothes, your skin, seeping into your lungs. The air was thick with it now, impossible to ignore.

Butter.

You hurried back to the dairy aisle. The butter sat alone, undisturbed. But when you reached for it, the floor beneath you felt different—sticky. You looked down. Blood, thick and dark, oozed from the cracks in the floor tiles. It pooled under your shoes, congealing like some grotesque syrup. You gagged but grabbed the butter anyway. The list was all that mattered now. Get the items. Get out.

Sugar.

The sugar was in the baking aisle, or at least it should have been. Instead, the aisle stretched out impossibly long, the shelves bending and curving into the distance like something out of a fever dream. You could swear you heard breathing—raspy, low, and too close. You quickened your pace, grabbing a bag of sugar from the shelf, but the breathing grew louder, more insistent.

Something was following you.

You ran.

Flour.

Your cart wobbled as you swerved into the next aisle. The flour was there, but now it was covered in some powdery residue that clung to the air like fog. You grabbed a bag, but the powder stuck to your skin, cold and grainy. It wasn’t flour. It couldn’t be flour. It smelled metallic, like dust from something ancient, long buried.

You coughed, but there was no air in this place anymore. It was suffocating, pressing in on you from all sides. The aisles seemed to close in, too, the walls breathing, pulsing, like you were inside something alive.

Cinnamon.

You fumbled with the spice jar. It was the last one, sitting alone on the shelf. As you touched it, the glass was icy cold, and you heard a low growl behind you. Slowly, you turned, only to see shadows shifting, twisting unnaturally, like they had minds of their own. A figure moved between the shelves, too tall, too thin, its limbs wrong, too long, its fingers scraping the shelves as it dragged itself closer.

You ran again. No time for thought. No time for sanity.

Ground beef.

The meat department was near the back of the store. The ground beef sat neatly packaged in plastic, but it squirmed, writhing as if something was alive beneath the surface. As you stared, the plastic ripped open, and something dark and slick slithered out, disappearing into the shadows. You didn’t care. You grabbed the beef and threw it into the cart, refusing to look closer.

The lights above flickered faster now, buzzing like dying insects.

Garlic.

The last thing on the list. The garlic was there, hanging in a small mesh bag near the end of the aisle. You reached for it, but the floor beneath you creaked, cracked, and then splintered open, revealing a dark, bottomless void beneath your feet. The shadows from before crawled out of it, whispering, laughing, hungry.

You barely had time to grab the garlic before the floor gave way, and you fell.

Fell into the dark, clutching your groceries like they were the only things that mattered, while the shadows closed in, their laughter echoing in the hollow void where the store—and you—used to be.

And now, no matter how much you scream, no one will hear you.

Because no one ever leaves the grocery store alive.
 
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