Groceries

    The cashier was slow. Mild autism or anxiety based on his mannerisms and rattled eyes. Why was he looking at me like that? I could hear the people in line whispering about the things I was buying I know they were. I like corn flakes. Trudy prefers oatmeal. Mother adores raisins. Had they nothing better to do than whisper crude things and eavesdrop? 

    "What do you want?" I ask the old woman behind me. She pretended not to know what I was talking about. The audacity. I know she was snickering when I had reached for coins in my pocket and dropped them. The whole store could probably hear the change clattering on the floor. A lady in the bread isle laughed when I did. They were all watching me. The cameras were pointed at me I swear. Any moment security would be called on me and they'll take me away to the same place they took Uncle Kevin. No no no no no I am nothing like him, mother always said. Why are they looking at me like they did him then? I have something in my teeth I know it, that must be it. 

    The cashier handed me my bags and I walked out. People were standing at the door, they didn't want me to leave I could tell. It was a trap. The kid who bumped into me in the cereal isle was walking out ahead of me. An informant. The little rat bastard. The whispers followed me out. They're going to know where I live if I go home. I can't let them. Don't go home. I can't let them.