Close

The lights outside the store are humming again, a maddening, incessant buzz that has recently become the soundtrack to my evenings. They're a sensory nightmare on the closing shift, the low-frequency tone vibrates straight through my skull and settles behind my eyes.

Before me, the shelves gleam with new worlds, new stories, new possibilities; each back cover promising a grander purpose. I straighten a stack of "Chronicles of Kona: Destiny's Blade" the hero on the cover posturing with a certainty of will. Their role is clear, their destiny definite; my certainty lies solely in the need to restock them.

On the slow walk back to the other side of the store, I catch a reflection drifting across the glass countertops; a tired ghost stares blankly back at me. There are dark circles under her eyes, knots in her hair and creases in her blue polo shirt. The cheap polyester blend chafes at the memory of bespoke costumes.

The thread seems to strip bare the shroud burying my former self. I wipe the glass, exorcising my dishevelled image from existence. The motion is mechanical, a practiced ritual to avoid meeting my own gaze for too long.

Most of my closing shift is spent monotonously tidying, cleaning and waiting. Becoming another part of the store’s fixtures. Habitually dulled by repetitive tasks or dust motes in the air.

The occasional old person is the exception to the monotony as they stumble their way through the aisles searching for DVDs. My co-workers have always treated them poorly. Snickering every time one of them accidentally knocks something over, or intentionally interrupting them when they begin to ask a question.

Personally, I find a brief solace in their tangential style of conversation.

“Oh thank you so much for helping me. I’ll tell you who else has been getting some help lately, my friend Mandy though her husband probably wouldn’t see it that way.”

It’s a special kind of craving, feeding off the emotional whiplash of their lives. Where each memory of colour and lustre they share only further illuminates how bare my own existence has become.

Tinny fanfare from a nearby demo cabinet cuts through the store, shaking away the daze from my limbs. I press and hold the power button, the screen’s vibrant world collapsing into a single point of light before vanishing.

“Count the tills, sweep the floors, check for any stowaways.”

My boss always reiterated the closing rituals to me even though I have been here for 3 years. I put the alarm on and pull the metal shutter at the front of the store down, a grating screech reverberates through the arcade. With a weary lament, the lights extinguish, plunging my small corner into darkness, finally easing the burden on my ears. The store keys rattle in my hand, a small weight of responsibility I despise. There is a small pleasure in relinquishing them to the void of the drop box.

The pavement is dull with recent rain. Neon “We’re Closed” signs shimmer on distorted puddles, bleeding reds and greens into the asphalt. The city’s scent is aerated with damp concrete, fried food, and the faint sweetness of refuse.

A low rumble vibrates through the soles of my shoes. My feet begin to carry me as the city dissolves around me into a blur of headlights and muted laughter of strangers; a world that feels a universe away.

The frigid night air caressing my skin fails to pierce the fog that has settled in my mind. Each movement forward feels heavier and more disconnected. That feeling doesn’t bring alarm, only a dry sense of inevitability.

A long stretch of pale concrete gawks at me, stained with the grime of a thousand hurried journeys. The platform is deserted; a disembodied voice announces the next express service, its cheerful tone a stark contrast to the hollow ache in my chest.

I find myself standing close to the edge of the platform, the textured yellow line pressing against the worn-down tread of my shoes.

It goes against my nature, as the stage direction

“Find your mark. Don’t stand too close to the edge.”

has been etched into my soul.

Down the tracks, a trio of brilliant lights cut through the inky darkness, growing larger, brighter, more insistent with every passing second.

The air begins to tremble, a powerful wind pulling at my clothes.

It feels almost like an embrace, a promise of an end to the quiet desperation that has become my constant companion.

A symphony of squealing metal and blinding light consumes everything. I close my eyes, not in fear, but in resignation.