An excerpt from the Drevets Log:
“Target: The Shopper’s Eye”
27 December 2011: 15:55
Very tired. Need coffee and Digestive Biscuit.
I wander a vast retail wasteland. Memories of my life before Target fade. Numbers, letters blend together. Nothing has meaning.
Sister has developed discount psychosis. I fear for her safety. The damage may not be reversible.
Humanoids pace the aisles, eyes glazed, drool tracks on their cheeks. The management has used the color red to hypnotize its prey. Mutters emanate breathily from their mouths. They cannot understand they say nothing. Meaningless. All meaningless.
My humanity burns within me. I must leave this place. The cardigan I search for is not here. Long sleeve crew neck tees choke my being. Everything has a cost, and still the danger grows. We will not sacrifice our souls in order to fulfill our quest. My sister weakens. My own resolve becomes faint.
I have contracted the dreaded shopper’s eye. Items are indistinguishable from one another. I sense my thinking grow clouded. I clutch ill fitting shirts of garish colors. Perhaps I will wear them to parties where glasses will clink and muffled laughter will sound from the other room where a rabbit plays the piano.
I better try on just five, no six, no eight more. Eight more blouses. These jeans don’t look like the cardigan I need. I need to try them on.
Dressing room attendants, here’s a number thank you, walk left right left slam, fluorescent lights, mirror, action. I cannot recognize myself. This is the only reality. Everything is a box, beginning here in this box in the Target box in a boxy suburb, in the box city, in the universe box.
My cell phone goes off. “Mother” is calling. What is mother? Memories stir in the deep. I remember mountains, dancing, Christmas lights on snow.
I tear out of the dressing rooms. Sister stands, mesmerized by a promotion display, her consciousness wasting away. I slap her. “WAKE.” I say. “WHAT THE CRAP.” Says she. “RUN.” I say. I grab her hand. She’s irritated. I know this. She cannot understand I seek only her good. I will receive her thanks later.
We sprint up the aisles, burst into sunshine. Winter rays warm our mortal flesh.
“I need to pay for this, Emily,” sister says. She holds a pair of jeans.
“You were taking SO LONG.” I insist. “I have saved you.”
“No, Emily. You haven’t. Wait here. I’m going back inside.”
I watch her re-enter. She will thank me yet.