Release

A story about anxiety, depression, and buying junk food in the middle of the night.

Photo by Andrea De Santis on Unsplash

---

This story was first published in Elegant Literature, volume 23.

---

It must be around three or four in the morning when I step into the convenience store, although it’s hard to be sure. Time tends to lose all meaning when you’re aimlessly wandering the streets in the middle of the night. Four in the morning has a certain feel to it though, a rigid dirtiness that gets in behind your eyes and claws at your throbbing brain. 

I pause in the threshold, letting my eyes adjust to the harsh buzz of the fluorescent lighting, bracing myself for the departure from the cool, soothing safety of the darkness outside. Other than the cashier, there’s one other person in the shop: a burly, heavily bearded man waddling amongst the aisles, clearly deep in a drunken stupor. For a moment I consider leaving, but the hollow knot in my stomach tugs at me, yearning to be filled. There’s only two people in here and they’re busy doing their own thing, thinking their own thoughts and living their own lives. All I need to do is buy some food and leave, surely I can manage. Maybe if I’m quick, they’ll hardly even notice me.

I put my head down and step forward. The automatic doors slide shut, closing me into this bizarre otherworld of early morning consumerism. Without the night’s chill around me, the air is suddenly hot and stale, leaden with the mingled scents of chemical bleach overlaying rancid puke. 

With little direction except for the gnawing hunger in my gut, I begin perusing the plastic wrapped poison this place calls food. The packaging is all bright colours and bold fonts, dark capitalist sorcery probing my subconscious. I can almost hear the food screaming, “eat me,” as I pass. My stomach roils in agreement.

I stop midway down the third aisle, next to the potato chips. There’s a patch on the off-white lino floor that’s clean. Not just clean, but so spotless and shiny it catches the glare of the light fixture overhead and throws it back up at me. It’s in contrast to this patch that I realise just how filthy everything else is. Grime and mould and mottled yellow stains lurk in every corner and dance across the walls. Despite the relative cleanliness, the bleach and puke cocktail is particularly pungent here. The poor cashier has clearly tried to cleanse the spot of what must have been something truly putrid. They couldn’t get rid of that smell though. It’s the sort of unbearable stench that lingers, seeping beneath the shelves and settling into the gaps in the flooring where it’s left to fester.

“Gah. Watch it,” the drunk man says as he swaggers towards me. His eyes are glassy and his limp mouth is leaking into his beard. He’s swaying so erratically, he may as well be taking up the entire aisle. For a moment I stand frozen, unsure what to do as the weight of his gaze bears down on me.  

“Move.” He shoulders past me and I’m pressed against the shelves in a rustle of plastic chip packets. There’s a split second where the smell of stale beer wafting off him over powers the puke.

“Sorry,” I try to say, but it catches in my throat and comes out as more of a grunt than a full formed word. 

He’s the one that should be saying sorry to me though. I glare at his back as he waddles away. He half trips, stumbling into a shelf, then lurches forwards and staggers to his feet, muttering under his breath. He’s so stupid. He’s rude and stupid and drunk, a total waste of space. Why doesn’t he just— 

I blink and splutter, swallowing as I push my anger back down into my gut. It rages within me, bubbling up my throat and pressing against my teeth, but I have to keep it contained. If there was one thing my father taught me, it was how to keep everything locked away, deep inside. To hide my internal world like it was some terrible, shameful secret. To let all my fury and fear and resentment rot within me like some malignant cancer of the soul. I've spent too long cultivating this mask to let it slip now.

I turn back to the potato chips and notice the aching in my jaw, only then do I realise how tightly my teeth are clenched. Later, when I’m alone, the mask will drop and the anguish will pour out of me only to be funnelled back in. I will whimper and I will bleed. The pain has to go somewhere and at least this way I’m the only one who has to drown. That’s why I don't have any friends. That’s why I never return any of my mother's calls. That’s why I sleep during the day and only go out in the middle of the night. If I’m alone then everybody is better off, everybody is safe. Is my sacrifice noble? Selfish? Maybe I’m just utterly delusional. I can’t really tell anymore. All I know is there’s no other way.

In the end, I grab a packet of artificially flavoured corn chips, two chocolate bars, and the cheapest pie on the warming tray. Who cares if I fill my body with microplastics, processed sugar, and glyphosate residue? I don’t and neither does anyone else.

The cashier is a woman old enough to be my grandmother, wearing the harrowed expression of someone at the end of a long shift. But there’s something else about her, about the way she looks at me as I unload my arm full of poison onto the counter. It's hard to explain exactly, but there’s a subtle, mocking disdain in the way she’s smiling at me. Something boils inside me. Who is she to judge me? She’s the one who works here peddling this shit, not me. 

I can feel the heat pressing against the inside of my skull, hammering away at my rib cage. It’s trying to claw its way out of me and grab hold of her.

She clears her throat, glaring at me and I realise she said something but I've no idea what.

“Pardon?” I try to sound calm and polite, but it comes out as little more than a hoarse grunt.

She rolls her eyes. “Ten dollars, fifty.”

I reach into my pocket and the cashier sighs when I retrieve a handful of loose coins.

I count for what feels like an eternity. The cashier's face curdles from contempt, to hatred, to pure, unadulterated loathing. My hand begins to tremble and I lose count.

Why can’t she just take a step back and give me some space? This should be easy, simple. Just some basic maths. Apparently I’m not even capable of that.

“Sir?” She says. Now she’s looking at me like I’m a complete idiot. I don't blame her.

The stench of cheap beer washes over me from behind. 

“Hey, man, hurry up.” The drunk’s slurred words batter my mind, prying at the walls I’ve so carefully built around my psyche. A black, bitter fire is filling me, desperate to break free and make its will manifest.

I go back to counting coins. What else can I do? I need to get out of here as quickly as possible. I try to focus on the arithmetic, but the cashier starts grinding her teeth and my concentration evaporates into dust.

“Do you need some help, sir?” The condescension in the cashier’s voice hits me like a smack in the face. How could she possibly help me? How could anyone? I can’t even help myself.

“Hey, are you alright?” the drunk asks patronisingly.

I try to answer, but my words come out as a croaking mumble, inaudible even to me.

“What?” the cashier asks.

Their stares are so intent, so penetrating, so ripe with malice. What if they see the weakness hidden behind my mask? So much attention. I'm drowning.

The coins fall from my hand as I run for the door. The cashier says something as I go but I hardly hear it. Outside, the full moon is shining like a brilliant jewel embedded in the sky, so bright it may as well be the middle of the day. The darkness within me calls to her. She answers back, presiding over me with menace and judgement written across her round face.

The low rumbling of an approaching truck beckons to me from down the street. That’s it, the release I’ve been looking for. I wait as it draws closer and everything within me becomes still. Somehow, I know this is right. The only answer. The rumbling grows into a roar and the blaze of the truck’s headlights fill the road. I step off the pavement.

I shudder as the truck’s thunderous horn reverberates through me. What am I doing? I don’t want to die. I try to step back but my body won’t move. It’s tight and tense, imprisoned in this blinding cage of light. Icy fear swallows me.

Strong arms wrap around me and I’m shunted out of the truck's path to collapse in a limp heap upon the curb. The truck passes and the entire world shudders in its wake.

“You okay, buddy?” The drunk from the convenience store kneels beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder. His breath is still heavy with stale beer but his eyes are clear and bright, looking straight at me, into me, through me.

I mumble a response then try to pull away but his grip grows firm, holding me in place.

“I know things seem hopeless right now,” he says softly. “You feel like it's all too much, like you're alone. Believe me, I know how hard it is. But you're not alone. You can get through this. Things can get better.”

A weak, cautious warmth flutters in my heart. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I don’t have to be alone… No. This guy doesn’t know me. He couldn’t possibly understand.

I’m about to pull myself free when he leans in close, wrapping his arms around me in an oddly gentle embrace. “It's going to be alright, buddy.”

At first I go totally rigid, my entire being seething in protest.

“It’s okay, buddy. Let it all out.”

Then the dam breaks and it all pours forth in a flood wrought from a lifetime of repressed fear and sorrow. The shameful, secret weakness sunken deep within my inner world, dredged up for all to see. I bury my head into his shoulder and weep. The tension slowly melts away, leaving me empty and extinguished. 

When finally I pull away from him, his shirt is soaked and the first golden glow of the fledgling dawn is creeping into the inky blue of the firmament. He puts his hand back on my shoulder and smiles. “Come on, mate, I just live around the corner. You look like you could do with a cup of tea.”

---

If you have any feedback regarding the story, either positive or negative, don’t hesitate to let me know. I’m always looking to improve.

Thank you for your time and attention, I truly do appreciate it.