“Hey!” I try to yell, only to be met with debilitating pain. Feels like I cracked at least one rib. “What the fuck, man?!”
The shadowed kneels, over my broken body, but I can’t make out a face. Using my good arm, I discreetly reach for the switchblade that I always have strapped to my ankle. I get the feeling they are not going to be calling an ambulance for me.
A deep, menacing voice comes from above me. “You’re not an asset, Brodi, you’re a liability.”
Fuck. They are going to kill me!
I lie perfectly still, letting them think they rendered me immobile. With all the strength I can muster, I grit my teeth and push up slightly. I whip my working arm across the man’s form, making contact with his neck. My blade opens his throat, and a crimson waterfall begins flowing onto me and the street.
The man finally comes into focus, and I watch him desperately grasp at the hanging flesh, trying to put himself back together.
I pull back again, ready to stab him in his fucking eye, when I hear a metallic scrape. I look up, just in time to see the other guy swinging a bat, straight for my head.
CHAPTER
FOUR
CINDEL
Ashort walk from the diner and I’m at my neighborhood Star Mart. This supermarket chain can be found throughout Boston and New England. Working here, it’s easy to pick up extra hours, but you're just a number, so if you don’t show up for a shift, you're blacklisted. Meaning, they won’t schedule you again because you fucked up.
I prefer stocking the shelves over working the checkout lanes, less human interaction results in less drama all around, and my coworkers are nice enough. I’ve worked here longer than I have worked at The Black Sheep, but I’ve yet to forge any lasting friendships. Management is tolerable at best, as long as I don’t have to deal with Craig. The Star Crew calls himCreepy Craigbehind his back, because he’s just downright weird. I mean, who the fuck brings a can of tuna to work each shift, then proceeds to coat their crackers without any mayo or seasoning? Psychopaths, that’s who! I mean, at least change it up a little… a turkey sandwich is a safe bet… or really anything that doesn’t make the whole backroom smell like cheap fish.
The nickname stuck for me, right around my ninety-day review. Craig sat in a folding chair, right beside me, the entire shift. He said it was to “grade” my work ethic. From stocking, to bagging, and even mopping,Creepy Craigwas right there beside me. He insisted it was company policy but, from what I heard, no one else had to face such scrutiny. No one wants to be watched that closely; it’s uncomfortable. Lucky for me, Craig hasn’t shared too many of the same shifts as me after that. So, I keep showing up at work.
Today’s schedule is posted in the backroom; I’m on register three. Grabbing one of the required green aprons from the hook on the wall, I push my head through the top and leave the laces to hang at my sides. Next, I shove my purse into a drawer at the bottom of the filing cabinet and make my way to the front.
The words ‘Star Crew’lie across my chest in big white block letters. I was embarrassed to wear it at first, but when I saw everyone else had to endure the same sin against fashion, I grew used to the idea.
Joining the floor, I saw Mairead. She’s one of the newer girls who started this month. Her name is pronounced like “parade” but with an “m” instead of a “p” and she is sweet as can be. Red curly hair and a genuine laugh that warms my very soul. Mairead is just easy to like. Seeing her on the register beside me gives me hope that perhaps my shift will go by quicker than usual.
“Hey Cindel.” She gives a small wave as I approach.
“Hey Mairead. It’s nice they put us together for once.” I tie my apron into a bow behind my back.
“I know, right?!” She agrees, opening a compact to check her face, while slightly crouching behind the register. “Hey… I never had a chance to get your number. I barely saw you last time we worked together.” She pulls a phone from the front pocket of her apron and reaches across my lane to hand it to me. “Here.”
I enter my contact info and hand it back, with an exaggerated bend over the conveyor belt. She looks down at the new contact; her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Then she tucks it back into her apron, just as a customer with an overflowing carriage pulls into her lane.
I log into my register with my employee number, but before I can turn on the numbered light, I notice something. A small box with a piece of paper attached sits just below the cash drawer. Sometimes my coworkers will store a can of pop there, but that’s about it.
I pick up the small black box, and see my name is on the tag. Clippings of mismatched letters are arranged on the manila paper. I look around to see if anyone is watching me. Mairead, still busy with her customer’s large transaction but, no one else in sight. Slowly, I lift the top of the box off to find purple, sparkly tissue paper within.
Unwrapping its contents, I finally set eyes on the item within. What the?—
“Are you open?”
My eyes jump up at the voice that caught me off guard. Tired, deep-set eyes stare back at me. An older gentleman in suspenders, juggling a carton of eggs and two bunches of bananas, waits patiently for me to respond. I nod, since apparently, I am unable to form words. I ball up the note with the mismatched letters forming my name and toss it into the pail. Then I pushed the lid onto the small box and tucked it back where I found it.
I’m on autopilot, unable to think. I scan the customer’s items without even uttering “hello”. I find myself unable to function.
The man lifts an eyebrow in question, and I realize he’s waiting for the total.
“Oh. Sorry. That will be… four dollars and sixty-two cents, please.”
He digs into his pocket, pulling out a leather coin pouch.
“Turn on your light!”
