It was a rather fictional, like snowy and gloomy night where the rain drops feel more like an actor purposely luring you outside your home for a marathon-like walk. The time was exactly 7:30 PM, dear readers. And here is a young man, who is not too tall and also not too short for people to take notice of whenever they take a walk and get a glimpse of him; he has square-like eyeglasses that rather suit his head perfectly common and balance head shape and face features. He is wearing a coal-dark jacket, and underneath that is a very not too notable, clean white t-shirt. He appears to be in an isolated, gloomy mood. His eyes project this type of feeling that if someone were to die right in front of him, for example. He will not even bat an eye on the bloodied, mutilated cold meat of that pitiful soul. Because of this moment, this young gentleman's eyes come across as they have already experienced the worst of the worst, a tragedy that they only fantasize about or joke about to themselves whenever they are testing their mental strength or whenever they just feel killing themselves inside, for they, for the lack of better words, just deeply crave to cry in spite of lacking the cause of it.
After an unknown amount of hours, after strolling for almost what seemed like eternity for him, he halted at a very average sized convenience store, a very simple, not noteworthy one, where when you see it, you can only utter to yourself, "Yes, this is without a doubt a convenient store," merely that one unremarkable thought. The young man lipped inside with his clothes and hair all drippy and seemingly heavy due to the water it absorbed, and annoyingly so, where his first five steps would dirty the very polished and newly cleaned, clear, plain white tiles underneath.
Dear reader, I am not forcing you to feel the same way as I do. But, if I were to somehow be a part of those bare minimum wageworkers, I would have lashed out in front of the face of that young man for what he just brought us to for merely stepping in this ghost-like shithole, pre-apocalyptic store where not a single soul is even alive enough to greet someone a "Hi!" whenever they enter. Anyhow, let's focus our attention once again on this poor soul, should we not?
The nanosecond this unremarkable drenched young man step foot inside this convenient store, expectedly, all living soul inside this shit hole could not give a little amount of attention to him, but to his defense, neither did he for these soulless imitations of a standing corpse. Without wasting a single second, he nonchalantly walked towards the chip section, where he grabbed two salty, spicey looking snacks he could devour later all by himself. He then immediately enter the average, non stressful and time consuming line for the counter, where a tall, ghostly white woman with a round metal eyeglasses that seems to take your attention from her majestic, fairly like face that could permanenty stare at her if you were to be even a little careless, and yet- underneath that soul captivating womanly appearance of her, she looks as soulless as a knockoff version of a mannequin that you would usually see on a rundown store owned by a beggar trying to sell anything he found on a very polluted junk shop just for him to be able to afford his second box of cigarette.
People mindlessly standing in front of the snacks with no actual passion to do so, they are simply there because they could, because they have no other things to tend to. Though some do talk to each other, but they only do so because they are already acquaintance with one another.
At the back of the store, look at the left where the vending machines are, you can see some people filling their cup and refilling it more than once to keep drinking; while only paying for one.
Whilst on the back itself, you can see a teenager, presumably around the age of 17 picking out five different energy drinks, and he seems rather indecisive, it is like he wants all of them but his budget and body could only handle one.
You can see people come and go the store with their expression not changing even a bit, still with that dead, zombie-like face that looks like it has given up everything they once had. And from the outside, near the door, you can see a homeless man with his used, ragged paper cup, pointing it to every customer it encounters for money. He does open and close the gate for you though, even if you were to pay him or not.
After a short amount of time, around 10 minutes, we can see the boy who struggled to pick an energy drink earlier, and it seems like he landed on the most basic and default one.(Talk about an uncreative taste). We can see him stand near the homeless man, seemingly searching for his wallet inside his pockets, planning to tip the guy some coins he has left, but after a minute, he did find his wallet and was able to pick up some coins from it, but rather than giving it to the homeless man after counting each of them right in front of him, he just left and laughed without ever looking back at the poor man.
And whilst the customers, including him are at a standstill, he instinctively let his present thoughts be preoccupied by his melancholy musings. His eyes lost what little spark they had left inside, like an apartment suddenly experiencing a power outage in the middle of the night on a ghost-like street.
The moment it became his turn to pay for his snacks, neither of them looked at each other like a human being, they are both as dead as two dried up stones that could be crushed with one squeeze from a toddler, neither of them caring of what the other is dealing with with their personal lives, or rather. None of them could even afford to, because these two unfortunate kids stuck on a status and a body of a so called adult are already suffocating and being crushed down by their own misfortunes, where if a three-centimeter rock were to even stack up on top of them, they would straightforwardly crumble to dust, with no soul or even a remnant to leave, merely their trashed up cold meat and bones that they used to have to carry alongside them every second.
"Is that all?" she said.
"Yes." He said with a cracky and broken voice, possibly due to the fact that he has not spoken for a good while.
The young man casually made his way to the dirty-colored wall that used to have the form of an elegant, clean and white. Justto gobble his freshly bought processed snacks, in a lonesome, yet refreshing manner, where you no longer have to process anything that you have just experienced, predict or prepare yourself for any nonsense conversation that you have to slavely insert yourself at, a peace that one could only attain after accepting that, one's desire for a companion should be optional in life, and that we all should learn to accept and love ourselves the way it is, in a forceful, deceitful and depressing manner.
But. I do wonder, just what even happened to this usually bright and joyful looking breathing, blood pumping and in heat meat to turn into such a cold, lifeless unmutilated corporate processed artificial meat that looks like it reflects the ideology of the company that processed it to be sold to a tasteless and soulles grocery in a serverly populated rundown city?
Do not be impatient Dear reader, because now- with an unreasonable thirst for this answer that resides solely inside his pitiful brain, we are now about to willingly but fearfully trespass his pitiful jelly trapped organ inside his head, where his story, delusion, desire, embarassment and sorrow resides.