Lies. I knew I was stuck living this way until I died. The question was: How could I live another fifty or sixty years like this? It was a trick question. There was no living another fifty or sixty years. I wholeheartedly believed I wouldn’t make it another year, let alone fifty times that number. Holding back the tears, I entered the hallway, took a few careful steps on the rising and falling floor, then turned into the bathroom, where splotches of blood stained the porcelain sink and tiles. Cut yourself enough times, you see no point in cleaning up your mess. I was just going to bleed all over the shit again anyway. Why bother?

            Moments later, I stood under steaming hot water for the first time in four days, peering through the frosted glass window at figures impossible to make out. Through the upper half of the window, that is. The lower half was blocked by a red towel I kept hanging over it, afraid people would spy on me through the glass. I would’ve kept the entire window covered, but then how was I supposed to watch them? It was the only exposed portion of a window in the whole apartment. The rest were guarded by blackout film, blackout curtains, and closed blinds. I would’ve boarded them, too, if I didn’t have a landlord and police to worry about.

It was also the only window tied down with a cord on account of it refusing to stay shut. I don’t know where that black cord came from, but it was the same one I tried to hang myself with Sophomore year of college. Unfortunately, my tying skills weren’t sufficient back then. So, the knot I tied around the ceiling vent came undone. One minute I was choking, the next I was on the floor crying. Though my skills improved, I possessed so little energy and motivation, I didn’t feel like undoing the knot keeping the window down and using the cord to kill myself. It’s said laziness is a sin, but sometimes it’s all that keeps a man alive.

Dressed and sparkling clean, I brushed my teeth until my gums bled, then made my rounds, inspecting every window to ensure the alarms were set. They were set yesterday, the day before, and every day before that, but you can never be too sure. After that, I checked the three locks on the back door, which were satisfyingly locked. It’s when I went for the front door I was cut off by a growling rottweiler who burst from behind the TV stand in the living room. Barking, it charged and lunged up at me. Raising my arms defensively, I recoiled and fell backwards as I shut my eyes.

Expecting to be torn apart, I was in a state of disbelief when nothing happened. Trembling, I slowly lowered my arms and opened my eyes, faced with a vacant hallway. “Third time in a month,” I muttered, picking myself up off the revolting floor. “It’s getting worse.” I was shaken, but what could I do other than keep going? It wasn’t like I could afford to miss work again. And what was I going to do if not suffer there? What else was there to do with my pathetic life? Work was my life. Outside of it, all I did was sleep, eat a little, maybe watch some videos, maybe turn on the game for a bit. I was nobody. I had no family I kept in touch with, no friends, never had a girlfriend. I had no life.

Disoriented, I stepped awkwardly to the front door, where I wiped some of the filth off my clothes, then grabbed my light blue work vest off the gray stool functioning as a side table. Running late, I quickly unfastened the locks and swung the door opened, met with a man in black who startled me before disappearing. Gripping the vest tightly, heart beating expeditiously, I wanted to slam my fist into the door and scream in frustration and fear. “It’s getting worse,” I told myself. “I know. I know it’s getting worse. But what can I do?”

A pair of boots belonging to a sturdy man marched down the creaking, wooden steps, prompting me to shut my mouth along with the door behind me. Messing with the lock longer than necessary, not wanting to have an uncomfortable moment where I tried going out the door at the same time as him, I caught a glimpse of the figure. He wore what I’d call a blue, long-sleeved workman’s shirt. His skin was pale, and he had long, dirty blonde hair he wore just past his shoulders, a stubble on his face, pale eyes. I recognized him. He lived in Apartment 303, two floors up and two doors down. He opened the entrance of the building, where he stood fishing for a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket, his silhouette standing against the cool, foggy outdoors.

“Nice morning,” he says, putting the cigarette in his mouth.

“The hell does this fucking freak want? He’s after you! Him and all the rest! They’re watching you through the cracks in walls! They’ve got cameras all over the apartment! He’s toying with you! He’s not real! He killed the real one, and they’ll kill you, too! You need to get out of here, now!” The voices screamed.

“Yeah…” I responded, tucking the key in my pocket, nodding. “It is a nice morning.”

“Mhm,” was all he had to say, lighting the cigarette before plunging into the world of fog.

“I’ll kill him,” one of the voices asserted. “He has to die.”

I questioned whether it was really a good idea to go to work. I knew the answer, but I had no other choice. Upon exiting the building and walking around it, I pondered how else I was supposed to survive. It wasn’t like the government was going to hand a worthless sack of shit like me any money. Approaching my red mountain bike I used to take on the trails when I had the time and energy, I noticed the chain binding it to the rack had been tampered with. Someone had taken care to position the bike how it was, but I could tell their dirty hands had been all over it. Was it a simple attempt at theft, or had something been done to the bike?

Scrutinizingly, I examined every inch of my bike for foul play, anything that might cause it to fall apart while I rode or anything that looked like a bomb or recording device. All around me, I heard whispering in the fog. Some of it I identified as English, but most of the whispering was in a language I couldn’t understand. There was something about it that struck me as ancient, primordial even. It was as though these dark figures moving every direction in the fog were evoking a sacred language predating human speech, performing some kind of ritual. I wasn’t done with my search, but it wasn’t safe to linger. Unchaining and mounting the bike, I hurried to the store.

It was nice riding through Avondale at that time of morning – quiet, low traffic, not many people out walking, somber. Visibility was poor that morning, the partially exposed fragments of the sky a pale pink. The city was more devoid of life than usual, no one out walking their dogs or riding bikes, only a couple joggers. Fog and rain are the two types of weather that make me most comfortable. I love the feeling of being shrouded in white or obscured by rain droplets. I like to be hidden. Grow up in a household where you’re beaten, and I mean slapped around over and over again until you bled, just for accidentally spilling a glass of milk – you’ll understand the importance of being unseen and unheard. They say don’t cry over spilled milk. No one ever says anything about making your child cry over it via blow after blow to the face.

I wished I could stay that way all the time. Unseen. Unheard. I still wish that most days. The problem was work demanded I wear a bright blue vest that attracted the attention of everyone within a twenty-mile radius. Such a cruel thing. They had to no idea how cruel it was. To make a paranoid person who was terrified people were stalking him, recording him, and plotting against him, someone who was suspicious of everyone who came anywhere near him, including the coworkers he’s supposed to be able to trust, to make him wear a vest that put all eyes on him when he wanted to be unseen… it was a sick joke.

After parking and chaining my bike to the rack, I threw on my bright blue vest, zipping it all the way. Having it zipped up at least brought me some comfort. It felt like I was wearing one of those thunder shirts designed for anxious dogs during storms. And, boy, was I anxious. Heart racing, I’d walk into that god forsaken place unable to breathe, damn-near petrified by all that could possibly go wrong, by the prospect of all the fear and paranoia that was in store for me. When I say heart racing, I mean that motherfucker would pound HARD against my chest, so hard I believed it’d explode out my chest. Some days, I expected the hands of a monster, of my inner self, to rip through my abdomen and tear me in half, finally freeing itself.

Approaching the greeter, whose back was to me, I braced myself for the inevitable as I thought about how she’d been enlisted to spy on me, remembering how she stared at me from across the store when I was stocking books the other day. She turned and gave me a “good morning,” and I sent one back to her with a nod, putting extra emphasis on the “oo.” Heart thumping more aggressively, I made the long march toward the electronics department, legs heavy as I clocked in on my phone at 7:09am. Any later, and I would’ve been pointed again. Five points, and you were out. I was certainly pushing that number. Can you honestly blame me? Live with what I had to, with what I still do, and we’ll see how many times you’re late to work, how many times you have to leave early, how many times you can’t drag yourself in at all.

Once my phone was in my pocket, I moved a little faster, feeling eyes on me from every aisle. Like every morning, I thought I saw someone shadowing me a little ways down who was just managing to get out of sight when I looked their direction. Entering my department, shoulders raised slightly, head lowered, hands tucked in my vest pockets, I went past the DVDs and made a left. “God damn it,” was the first thing that went through my head when I saw the man standing at the counter.

He had one of those mesh trucker caps on, the kind where only the front is completely solid. Red, it complimented his long-sleeved jean shirt, cowboy boots, crisp blue pants, and the brown leather belt around his waist. The country type was uncommon in the city, and they were a type that made me feel threatened. Lamenting I wouldn’t even have a chance to brace myself for what was to come that day, I rushed toward the counter. Seeing as how we were supposed to open at 7:00, there was a good chance he’d been standing there for over nine minutes, possibly longer since grocery opened at 6:00. I didn’t imagine he’d be in a pleasant mood if either were the case.

“Hello,” I said, expecting some form of rudeness as I made my way behind the register.

“Hello,” he responded, not looking up from the box of the portable, rechargeable battery he was holding.

I wondered what he might need it for so early in the morning, but I didn’t dwell on that. What I dwelled on instead was the fact he mirrored my words. False memories ensued. I incorrectly recalled the man back at the apartments reflected “nice morning” at me and that the greeter repeated my “good morning.” I panicked, confused why everyone was rerepeating my words, questioning whether I was trapped in a world in which that’s all anyone would ever do. Whatever the case, I needed to get rid of him.

“Was that it for you?” I asked, afraid he was going to say the question back.

“Yeah, that’ll do ‘er,” he replied, sliding the box over to me.

“Got it. You happen to be paying with card?”

“Ayup.”

“Gotcha. I was just asking because that’s all I can take this early.”

“Oh, yeah? I’ll remember that for next time.”

I didn’t like that last sentence. Thankfully that was the extent of the conversation, however. I rang him up and passed back the box along with the receipt. He walked away.

“Something’s not right about that guy,” I thought.

Immediately, I covered my mouth because I heard the thought outside of my head, initially believing I spoke out loud. That was another bad sign. It meant people were likely going to be reading and hearing my thoughts all day. The only solution to that was to force exclusively good, positive thoughts through my head. If you’ve ever worked in customer service, you understand what a monumental task only thinking positively for a full eight-hour shift is. You understand it’s impossible. I couldn’t even think neutral thoughts because I might slip up and reveal information I’d prefer the public not to know. I didn’t want them having access to my true thoughts anyway, just the false ones I propped up as a shield for my mind.

For the moment, at least, I was alone and could think relatively freely. Not entirely freely because that goddamn wall of TVs running 24/7 could pick things up, the store’s radio, too. Well, I never truly felt alone either – not physically. I could always sense the presence of others, people hiding among the aisles, stalkers recording me from the cover of the clothing racks across from the department. I don’t care what my doctors say. There was one morning I was working alone I know I saw a woman recording me with her phone before retreating behind a row of shirts. I’m willing to forgive all the other times, chalk them up as hallucinations or just my imagination, but that time was for real. And if there was one instance that was definitely real, who’s to say any of the other times weren’t real?

Shortly after the man left and I retrieved the tills, I organized the mess of products strewn about and threw away food and drinks left by the closers. It was then I saw myself in a third person perspective from the clothing section. Startled, I jerked my head toward the apparel once I was back in first person, expecting someone to be recording me, but no one was there. Not among the clothing at least. Standing on the other side of the counter was myself, dressed in my black winter coat and dark red beanie with a full beard. Hand on my chest, I backed away as my doppelgänger cocked its head to the side, mouth stretched open, and leaned toward me. Shouting, I closed my eyes when I tripped and fell backwards into the cage protecting the laptops, colliding my spine against the bike lock attached to it. Before anyone could come investigate, assuming anyone cared enough, I scrambled to my feet, my doppelgänger gone when I opened my eyes.

Struggling to cope with what just happened, hallucinations where I see myself the most terrifying of all, I hurried to the backroom. On my way, I was forced to walk by the hated wall of TVs and their incessant, obnoxious commercials. I figured a new commercial must’ve been added to the lineup because I’d never heard such mocking laughter come from the TVs, and oh, how they mocked me every day. I swear it was their mission to bring out the violent fury within me. Ugh ha ha ha-ha. Ugh ha ha ha-ha. Ugh ha ha ha-ha. Over and over again, that’s how they laughed. I took the ensemble of mocking laughter personally as I passed through the black doors to the back, slowing my pace once I was on the other side.

Catching my breath, I did my best to give the impression all was well to anyone who might be lingering in the hopeless place. I could never be certain someone wasn’t watching through the cracks between the towers of boxes reaching all the way to the ceiling. I realized I’d gotten so preoccupied by cleaning everyone’s mess, I forgot to grab the keys that granted access to all the locked-up products. In no hurry, I decided to collect the keys from the box. Leaning against a wall beneath a raised shutter, arms crossed, was Rachel, the nighttime receiving area supervisor.

“Good morning, Alex,” she said when I passed by her post on my way to the key box.

I knew she was supposed to be watching for something each morning, but it was never clear what. She was one of two people from third shift I knew on a first name basis, the only person I talked to in the morning whenever we happened to cross paths. What made her stand out from all others was the red fleece she wore every day. Always unzipped, it was made of that soft, synthetic fur I still don’t know the name of, the same kind within the interior of my red winter coat. That, and she had shaggy, dirty blonde hair coupled with warm brown eyes and a handful of freckles. I’m a sucker for that shit. She was at least a few years older than me. I liked that, but whether she had a boyfriend or not, it never would’ve worked out between us. A specimen like me can’t be in a relationship.

“Good morning.”

That’s how I thought of myself, how I explained what was happening to me – I was a specimen, a science experiment under observation by the government. I didn’t believe I was human. I still doubt whether I am. Punching my numbers into the electronic key box, I briefly felt like I was more important than I was, like I was some bigshot executive of the company.

“You get any new consoles yet?”

I had to pause and consider whether she was really talking to me or if I was hearing things. She was always going on about the consoles. She wanted one badly. It was the reason she spoke to me when we first met. It was the last thing she ever asked me about.

“Me or the store?” I asked, withdrawing the keys, tucking them into my vest pocket.

“The store. If you got one, you better tell me where because every place is out.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. Shouldn’t you know whether the store has one or not? You’re the supervisor back here.”

“That doesn’t mean I see literally everything that comes through,” she informed me as I walked away. “Well, let me know when you get some!”

 As much as I wanted to talk to her, I was too anxious about leaving the department unmanned. I couldn’t bring myself to stand around and chat. So, I returned to my duties of sweeping the floor, performing maintenance on the photo lab printers, stocking the truck from the previous night, and helping one shady individual after another. All the while I felt like I was being watched. I felt small, isolated, afraid. It’s fascinating how one can be trapped in a big-box store full of people and feel so alone. It wasn’t long before I started taking the laughter of the TVs very personally.

I expected reinforcements in the form of Stacey around 9:00am, but would you believe there was no Stacey to be found that day. Called off, which meant no 10:15 break for me. That was fine. That was just fine. Relief would be coming at 11:00. The big guy, the big boss of the department, Mark, would be in. He was my hero, a father figure. I could stave off the growing horde of flesh-eating monsters until he got there. It was a Friday, the busiest day of my work week, but I could handle it. I always handled it. All the normals had it easy. All they ever had to do was show up. Me, I had to put in at least triple the effort to function like a normal, but I did it every day. This is a world built for the normals, yet I’ve always been expected to be as productive a member of society as them. Always. Always, always, always.

The masses grew restless. Their ranks multiplied. In the corners of my eyes, as I attempted to provide excellent customer service, I saw the shadows that haunted me each day. If no one else was, I could at all times be sure they were watching me. The noise level increased along with the length of the line and my stress level. I was just one kid who had to run the register; keep the photo lab operational; help people at the photo kiosks with their orders; help people with their phones; unlock the cages for the laptops, games, speakers, ink cartridges, watches, cameras, and phones; explain everything about all the shit to everyone; and wheel out 75-inch TVs for assholes whose cars were too small with no one around to man the register, allowing the horde to just keep growing and growing to a point from which there was no recovering. And, still, someone had to stock, do the leftover mods, and do price changes, but all that was hardly worth attempting on a Friday.

11:00 rolled around. Still no one came. Of course no one did. I’d forgotten it was a holiday. Anyone who wasn’t as foolish or desperate for money as me called off, if they didn’t already have the day off. And it was Friday. Fucking Friday. Stacey was always off on Fridays. What the hell was I thinking? My only hope was for Brandon to come in at 2:00, but how much would that be worth? If I made it that long alone, what was another two hours of torture?

I wanted to throw up. I wanted to run to the bathroom and not come out. I wanted to quit right then and there, but I needed the money. The shadows multiplied along with the ravenous beasts known as customers, intermingling with them, refusing to disappear. The TVs continued laughing at me while I got yelled at for telling a bald man with his stomach protruding out from under his shirt that he couldn’t buy an ink cartridge up front. As though there weren’t roughly a million people I had to help, he demanded I take it up front for him before walking off. They laughed as I had to apologize for not having photo lab orders done on time. They laughed as I carried out their brethren knowing it would only be worse for me when I came back. They laughed as I was berated and yelled at by people tired of waiting while I fumbled with cash in my shaking, sweaty hands and struggled with the register keys. And these freaks… they wore the faces of people I knew from all throughout my life. It wasn’t the first time, but never had it persisted in that way. The bodies were all wrong, but they had their faces.

So much noise. The yelling, the laughing, the idle chatter, the whispers in another language. As a familiar man stepped forward, the noise distorted, and everything around us turned red. It was the man from Apartment 303 who shot me a smile, a blurry, white object in his hands. I tried to speak, but nothing would come out. Baring his sharp teeth, he spoke to me, mouth moving slowly, yet there was no sound. All I could hear was the laughter and the moans of the crowd getting louder and louder. I tried to cover my ears, but the sound had already invaded my head, assaulting me from the inside, running rampant throughout my fragile mind.

I screamed. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I screamed. I screamed, and all I could see of the masses were the faces of people I knew. I screamed, and I ran for the backroom, the closest thing there was to sanctuary. Heart pounding, struggling to breathe, I hid in the department’s section of the backroom. Terrified people would come looking for me, thinking the horde itself might come rip me apart, I didn’t stay long. The instant I found the courage, I bolted through the store, passing that damned greeter who stared at me on my way out the front. I also passed Rachel, who was coming in just as I was leaving.

“Alex?” She worriedly called.

Looking back, I don’t think that was the real Rachel. It didn’t make sense for her to be awake and coming in at that time. I wasn’t concerned about that, though. Panting, I hopped on my bike and rode away. I never went back.

I don’t remember much about the ride home, other than I rode fast. I was so panicked, the details escape me. I just remember feeling like I was being followed. I was crying, too. At least by the time I got home. Slamming the front door behind me, I marched through my apartment, tears running down my face. I slammed the bedroom door as well before proceeding to break half the shit in my room. When I saw that damned piece of paper tacked to the door, I got about as far as “It doesn’t have to” before ripping it in half. Later that night, I carved a new phrase into the door with one of my knives, security deposit be damned.

Empty

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