Breathe

Breathe

Just make your way across the car park. One step at a time, that’s right. Ignore the car horns, you have a right to walk here, the black and white sanctuary, the island of placid calm until you reach the doors. 

You have to keep going. Towards Hestia’s temple of home and hearth. Within the confines of plastic glass and plastic wrap resides everything you need. Everything which will make your life complete. But those treasures won’t come to you. You have to go in. And you can do it. One step at a time. 

Just breathe. 

The horns are getting louder. Pressed with more force, more urgency, and accompanied with increasingly vulgar suggestions of what will happen if you don’t get your arse out of the fucking road. 

It isn’t much, but it’s enough to force your legs into action, those few steps propelling you to the pavement, the bumps pushing up the soles of your shoes, only slightly less agonising than the final blast of the horn, the final hurled insult which makes you wither inside. 

No turning back. Can’t return home empty handed, not now you’re finally here. Facing the questions, the disapproving looks, the time wasted gathering up the courage between ragged breaths in the car. 

The pound coin is clammy, burrowing into your palm with a biting cold edge. You lost the trolley token weeks ago. Or was it months? The answer doesn’t really matter. It slides in with the smallest amount of resistance, the chain clattering partially loose as you yank a trolley out of its nest. 

Squeaking, pulling to one side, but markedly more stable than your previous three fares, the trolley responds to your every yank and thrust, the wheels mumbling out their protest as you approach the automatic doors. 

A few more steps and you’re inside the crypt. After that…

After that you’re sucked in. Caught by the current which is all too strong to fight against. One has to go with the flow, not fight it. Otherwise you drown, otherwise you…

Trolleys piling up behind you, squeaks and metal shudders growing louder, no one brazen enough to repeat the insults hurled at you from idling cars. Not out loud, anyway. But you can hear their thoughts. You know exactly what they want to say. Because you’ve had those very thoughts yourself. 

You’ve become a dam, clogging up the raging waters, and there’s only so long that you can hold your ground. It’s too late now, you’ve made your choice. The river flows on and all you can do is hold your breath, take the plunge. Before the current drags you down. 

Breathe.  

Something within forces you forward. The other shoppers wouldn’t dare to use physical means to remove you from their path. They don’t have to. Tentative steps transform into a frantic stride, the bar is slippery in your hands. At any moment the trolley could careen out of your grasp, but you know you wouldn’t fall. The current would take you. Sweeping you up before dragging you down, down, down. 

The first plunge is always the worst. Clothing hanging in limp rows to your left, not a single soul traversing the crisscrossing waste of space, and a customer service desk to your right, already overwhelmed with those in need of lottery tickets and as many stamps as they can reasonably afford. You can’t see the end of the queue, perhaps there is no end. On and on it winds, up and down the length of the shop countless times, just another barrier keeping you from your ultimate goal, wrapping around you, sucking the air from your lungs, turning your thoughts into a thick red fog. There’s no escape. There’s never been any escape. 

Thank heavens for the punters behind you, otherwise you would never have progressed past the narrow canal, the only path open to enter and leave the shop. One step out of line spells catastrophe, throwing you straight into the path of the oncoming traffic, trolleys crashing against each other as they vie for supremacy in the space which can barely accommodate a singular line of irritable shoppers.

Why they decide to put you through such torture before allowing you to buy anything is a question you are still unable to answer. It is a cruelty only the keenest sadist could dream up. Punishment, perhaps, for the wanton gluttony which brought you to this cursed land. 

Faltering onward, the trolley clanging against others, you stagger through the crush without registering the insults thrown your way in low muttered tones. Nothing can be heard above the buzzing in your ears. It isn’t until you have rounded the corner, the queue petering away to nothing and the clothes far behind you, that you remember to let out a burning sigh. How long have you been holding your breath?

Breathe. Just breathe.  

Now is the only moment of respite you are afforded on this entire trip. A small area, bare and safe, no shelves to block, nothing to pull another victim into your orbit. Unless they too are searching for a stretch of nirvana in this endless desert. 

Shoppers race past you at incredible speeds, and with a damp hand pressed to your forehead, you rerun the oft repeated list. Despite your best efforts you can’t keep from mumbling your thoughts out loud. 

“Milk. Oranges. Bread. Washing powder”

Three times, four times, you won’t allow yourself to forget a single thing. Otherwise another trip will be required. There’s no way you could bear it. 

Gripping the bar once more, inconspicuously wiping sweaty hands in long streaks on your jeans, you swing the trolley around. Milk is always kept at the back of the shop, a blatant attempt to trick you into impulse buys. A vow, whispered under your breath,determines that you will not allow your eyes to wander. A smaller trolley was chosen for that very reason. Only the necessities will be purchased today. 

Weaving left and right, squeezing through aisles built wide enough for two trolleys abreast, but too small to add a third into the mix. Not that the average punter doesn’t try. Is it their fault that they make the attempt? Shelves tower high above, disappearing into vaults overhead, the floor twisting and turning beneath spinning wheels. Pulsing aisles, contracting and expanding as you progress through the meandering crowd. No one gives you a passing glance, so adept are you at avoiding crashing into the other metal cages which are more filled than yours. They have fallen into the inevitable trap. Even here they hover over products marked up only to be sold at an undeniable steal. 

Keep yourself on track. Step by step you will find what you are looking for. If only you can stay above the water. 

If only you remember to breathe. 

Hairs prickle along your arms, mingling with the warm sweat coursing over you in raging rivers. Milk is always an ordeal, nestled in the coldest part of the tomb. And the busiest. Despite the hoard of alternatives available, good old fashioned milk has remained as popular as ever. 

There’s no necessity to fight your way to the front, no one lingers in this frozen wasteland, yet something makes you hesitate in joining the frenzied rapids. Will you be fast enough to grab what you need before being washed away? There’s a small impulse to try organic milk this time, if the price is right. No chance of stopping long enough for a proper look, perhaps it’s better to wait until next time, when the punters will be fewer and the gleaming aisles will stretch out for miles. 

Trembling fingers curl around the cold handle, a small groan slipping past your lips as the monstrous amount of milk is heaved into your trolley. Enough to last a week. Hopefully longer if you economise on your own share. 

And just as you feared, the river, which you don’t even remember joining, whisks you past yoghurt, cheese, fresh cream cakes filled to the point of shamelessness. None of which feature on your meagre list. 

It takes three trips down unnecessary aisles before you manage to free yourself by darting down the row of baby food. Always empty and a frequent relief from the madness which waits just within reach, ready to snatch you up given the chance. Where, the thought drifts unbidden into your mind, do people buy baby food if not at the supermarket?

Washing powder. The next stop. Closest to your small haven, the bright boxes screaming for your attention. This, you know from painful experience, is the most treacherous step of your journey. Every week a different layout, prices fluctuating, up and down, up and down, old favourites placed at the end of the aisle, or in different packaging, or disappeared altogether, and the smell, the smell. Heavy perfume hanging in a heavy fog, winding its way up your nose until you smell nothing else, see nothing else - 

With a jolt of another trolley hitting your own, an overburdened mother passing by with two irritable toddlers and a nasty glare, you spin yourself in the right direction. Staying any longer amongst the baby food will only draw attention, and that’s something you can’t risk happening again. The humiliation as you were led out of the shop, breaths coming shallow and rapid, unable to support yourself as the panic consumed you, a painful moment you will never live down. 

One steadying breath. Then another. And you’re ready. The trip has barely begun, but it has begun. Right now it’s the greatest victory you could wish for. 

Just breathe. 

Relishing the final seconds of peace, you jump into the churning soup. The trick is to keep moving without breaking into a run. Running requires additional oxygen. This tainted air would only serve to burn your lungs, rendering you dizzy and helpless. 

Today, however, appears to be a lucky day. For there at the end of the aisle is the very thing you are looking for. The bright pink box, essence of lily and orange blossom. Doesn’t matter that it’s not on sale. Doesn’t matter that the box is slightly dented, left behind by discerning shoppers who have no shame in rooting through the more fortunate brethren whilst on their hands and knees. 

You make no such distinction. What kind of person would you be if you judged others purely by their obvious deficiencies?

A shudder, a squeak of the wheels, and you are safely in the fresh air, though you wait for a full minute before drawing in a few ragged breaths. So far the ordeal has been, well, less than an ordeal. Vague pieces of advice about facing your fears and growing accustomed to the chaos echo in your ears. Comforting as it is, you find it difficult to believe. The stirring in the pit of your stomach tells you that a trap has already been laid. Some cruel test that must be overcome before you are allowed to flee to the sanctuary only your own car can provide. 

No sense in dwelling on it. A trek back across the vast expanse of aisles must be made. The only way out is forward. 

Halfway done. Halfway there. Keep moving, keep your head up. 

And breathe. 

Bread and oranges. Bread and oranges. Are the aisles narrower here? Or are there an ever growing number of people jostling for their share of space? What is the time? You’re certain you came early enough to avoid the after school rush, but everything is impossible to keep track of in these bright lights. Minutes slip through fingers like sand, taking you closer to the ultimate end. It drives you forward, faster and faster, your only company the squeaking wheels of your metal companion. 

That black abyss never feels closer than when you are here. A thought you dare not express to anyone. Lest they think something is wrong with you. 

The bread aisle. Warm. Safe. The subtle hints of yeast and assorted seeds blasting away the final stubborn hints of washing powder from your burgeoning lungs. 

Everytime the tantalising temptation threatens to overwhelm you. An urge to thrust your hand into the soft depths, squeezing and squeezing until the soft plastic and even softer flesh yields to your touch. Relief. Utter relief would rush through you as every dark thought, every agony, every second of pain would be transferred into the dough. It wouldn’t end the pain, but at least you could hold the loaf aloft, proudly screaming to all those who refuse to understand “Here I am. Every minute of every single day”.

The loaf remains unscathed as you drop it into the trolley, moving away before the undeniable urge overwhelms you completely. 

How easy a task becomes when you take things one step at a time. Every journey is impossible until you actually take it. You make it through, you always do. Despite the intent of this slumbering beast, the dragon guarding its hoard, unwilling to allow you to escape back through its doors. 

No, not a dragon. Something far more insidious, laying out its aisles with dizzying intent, forcing you to traipse up and down until you are completely disorientated. Changing shape, growing, shrinking, rearranging well worn paths, never letting you get too comfortable. You are not welcome here. You will forever be a stranger, an interloper whose presence is tolerated. For a short time, anyway. 

Vaulted ceilings that never end, bright lights burning into retinas, tinny music barely audible above the hubbub of the crowd who never run out of topics of conversation. How are they able to maintain a train of thought in this chaos? Do they not see it? Or do they simply not want to accept the truth? 

Because the intent is clear to you. Abundantly clear. Drip by careful drip, your resolve is eroded away. Once that’s gone there will be nothing protecting your sanity. And this monster, this beast, will be free to feed on whatever it likes. It will leave nothing behind. You will finally be discarded, empty, lost, chained to your trolley to trace the narrow aisles for the remainder of your life.  

Lost in passages of thought best left untraversed, contemplating the shape of the monster which has such nefarious designs upon you, the foolishly trusted trolley lives up to its reputation, the front wheel launching sideways as you round a corner and crashing directly into a stack of cans. 

Tumbling tin, tuts from those nearby which make your cheeks burn, the trolley rolls sideways as you drop to your knees, scrambling to grab each rolling can. 

Too comfortable, far too comfortable, and your hubris was duly punished. You really thought it would be that easy? That jaunty walk of a soul unburdened was enough of crime which demanded retribution. 

Someone is close to you now, the heat from their body inflames your cheeks even brighter. A few words are thrown your way, something about not worrying about the mess, the statement rendered insincere by the sneering tone. Risking a look you see a flash of a blue vest so ugly it can only be uniform. Another victim or a willing collaborator, it’s difficult to judge. 

Cans overflow in your arms which you dump in front of the harried worker, mumbling out an apology in lieu of anything useful to do. They don’t hear you. Or they choose to ignore you. Something deep down tells you it’s the latter. Thankfully the trolley is just within reach, and grasping the bar you haul yourself to your feet, step by unsteady step propelling you closer to freedom. Your time here is over, and this was your cue to leave. Immediately. 

Queues stretch from every register, so you choose the closest one rather than waste time hunting for something quicker. The lights, the chatter, the clanking of crashing tin jostle for dominance in your mind as you wind your way closer to the foul conspirator waiting to judge every purchase brought in tribute before her. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. The rapid pace matching your rising heart rate. Every item tainted by the intrusive touch of your latest enemy. Is that a smirk you detect? Dancing around her eyes before settling in the corners. Smirking which deepens and grows as the glance flickers up to meet yours. Then comes the pause. A long, interminable pause. You wonder what it’s all for. This nightmare won’t end until you are allowed to pay. Until you are allowed to leave…

Pay. That’s what she’s waiting for. To take your money, to finish the transaction once and for all. Your fingers slip and slide over your credit card, nestled tightly in the crevice of your phone case. Her own fingers are tapping on the harsh metal, clacking away the seconds whilst your palms become increasingly sweaty. 

Finally your nails snag on the raised numbers, almost sending the card flying into the cashiers’ lap. Mercifully you catch it, thrusting it at the terminal, the receiving beep marking an end to your extended torture. Without so much as a final apologetic look, you gather up your purchases, almost slipping from your arms before they are dumped into your trolley. Yours for only a short time longer.  

Squeaking, protesting, veering to and fro as it threatens to toss you into a myriad of exhausted shoppers also trying to make their desperate escape. 

Your trusted companion in name only.

But the end is in sight. Just out of reach, beyond the final trial. Taking you right back where you started. 

Instinctively you hold your breath as the clothing and customer service desk close in on either side. Seconds stretch into minutes which stretch into hours which stretch into days…

And just like that you’re free.

Free in the, what can only be generously described as, fresh air. Dodging the oncoming cars and the inventive insults which drivers must have practiced during the eternity you spent trapped in the slumbering beast. 

The trolley slips back into its cell, tethered to its brothers by a single thin chain, the pound coin popping into your palm. All that is left now is to stumble back to your car, dropping your purchases into the passenger seat as you collapse over the steering wheel. 

It’s over. Finally over. With only a few steadying breaths you reach out to rearrange the bread, pushing it away from the milk, setting the washing powder on the floor to make room for the…

Oranges. The fourth necessary item you simply had to remember, left behind in piles behind the misted glass, buried amongst the cheap plastic. 

Hands slipping on the wheel, eyes dilating as your breath catches in your throat. 

Can you go home without the oranges? Is there some excuse which will hide the shame?

The monster waits for your return. It possesses the time you lack. All roads lead back to its vaulted ceilings and twisting aisles. You can’t escape. Not really. 

And next time you know you won’t be allowed to leave.