Fictional Stories for Fictional Audiences

The Schism in the Aisles

A Grocery List for Madness

Jun 07, 2025

`Part 1: Duality`

I hope the cashier at the grocery store knows that I am two different people when I make my twice-a-day visits. The first one is on a health mission. The second one lacks self-control. Seriously, Brenda (that’s her name, embroidered in cheerful blue thread on her green apron) must think I’m either incredibly forgetful or utterly deranged. Maybe both. Bless her, she never lets it show beyond the faintest flicker of recognition in her tired eyes at 7 PM that says, You again?

The morning me is a paragon of virtue. Or at least, aspiration. I stride in just after 8 AM, the automatic doors sighing open to greet Purposeful Me. My reusable tote bag is crisp, my steps are brisk. I head straight for the organic produce section, a woman on a mission. Kale? Check. Spinach? Double check. Those ridiculously expensive little berries that promise eternal youth? In the basket. Kombucha, almond milk, chia seeds – the armoury of the righteous. My basket is a verdant, virtuous green. I make eye contact, smile thinly at Brenda. See? I telegraph silently as she scans my haul. This is who I am. A person who fuels their body with sunlight and chlorophyll. She gives a perfunctory nod, her fingers dancing over the keys. “Have a healthy day,” she murmurs, the standard morning benediction. I leave feeling light, almost sanctified, the morning sun warming my back as I head to my sensible, spreadsheet-filled job.

Then comes the unraveling. Usually around 6:45 PM. The fluorescent lights of FreshMart feel harsher now, exposing the cracks in my resolve. The purposeful stride is replaced by a weary shuffle. The reusable tote is crumpled at the bottom of my work bag; I grab a flimsy plastic basket instead. The air smells faintly of stale bread and disinfectant. My trajectory is different now. I bypass the glowing produce entirely, a land of judgement I cannot face twice in one day. I beeline for the inner sanctum of shame: the snack aisle, the frozen food section, the wine display.

Tonight, it’s the double chocolate chunk cookies calling my name with a siren song louder than my boss’s afternoon rant. A family-sized bag. Then, because why stop at sugar, a frozen pizza oozing with processed cheese and mystery meat. And a bottle of cheap Pinot Noir, because clearly, vegetables don’t cut it when the existential dread sets in with the dusk. My basket is a monument to capitulation – beige, processed, and vaguely depressing.

And there’s Brenda. Same green apron, same weary slump. Her eyes meet mine as I place my contraband on the conveyor belt. The kale and kombucha of this morning feel like a lifetime ago, a performance staged by an impostor. Does she see the shift? Does she register the slumped shoulders, the averted gaze, the sheer weight of the cookies in the bag? I dump them out – thud. The pizza box scrapes. The wine bottle clinks accusingly.

She scans them. Silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable. I can practically hear her thoughts: *Kale at 8 AM, cookie-fest at 7 PM. This one’s a real piece of work.* Or maybe she’s just wondering when her break is. I hope it’s the latter. I hope she’s seen so much weirdness in the fluorescent trenches of FreshMart that my pathetic duality barely registers. Maybe she files me under ‘Harmless Weirdo, Buys Too Much Sugar’.

“Find everything okay?” she asks, her voice flat, the same question she asks everyone, regardless of whether they’re buying quinoa or enough ice cream to drown a small village.

“Yep, thanks,” I mumble, fumbling for my card, avoiding her eyes. My cheeks feel hot. The virtuous morning ghost haunts me right there next to the impulse-buy gummy worms I just tossed onto the belt. Two people. One body. One increasingly bewildered cashier.

As I grab my plastic bags of defeat, heavy and greasy, Brenda offers the evening benediction, devoid of the morning’s hopeful adjective: “Have a good night.”

I flee into the cooling twilight, the automatic doors hissing shut behind me like they’re sealing my shame inside. The walk home feels longer, the bags heavier. Brenda knows. She has to know. She’s the silent witness to my daily, delicious collapse. I just hope she doesn’t judge the morning me too harshly for the sins of the evening. They barely know each other.

`Part 2: The Lizard`

Brenda’s knowing look haunted me all the way home. The plastic handles of the grocery bags dug into my palms, a physical counterpoint to the psychic weight of the double chocolate chunks and cheap Pinot Noir. Two people, I thought, dumping the bags onto the counter. But which one is real?

The morning me felt like a distant, smug stranger. The evening me was a familiar, greasy disappointment. The cycle continued relentlessly: virtuous sunrise, shameful sunset. Until Frank.

Frank was my leopard gecko. A tiny, jewel-toned creature residing in a terrarium in my cramped living room. I’d gotten him years ago, during a brief, misguided phase of believing caring for something fragile would make me less fragile. Mostly, he just blinked his bulbous eyes and ate crickets I bought guiltily from the pet store. Harmless. Silent. Or so I thought.

It started subtly. A flicker of movement in the corner of my eye while chopping kale for my morning smoothie. Just Frank, climbing his fake rock, right? Except… the movement seemed deliberate. Almost… mocking. I dismissed it. Stress. Lack of sleep. The constant internal battle between the two me’s was taking its toll.

Then came the whispers. Not audible, exactly. More like thoughts that weren’t mine, slithering into my mind during the vulnerable twilight hours, just as the evening cravings began to stir.

"Why bother?" the whisper hissed as I eyed the kale wilting in the fridge. "All that effort for what? So Brenda can raise an eyebrow at your pathetic discipline?"

I jumped, spilling almond milk. Frank was basking under his heat lamp, utterly still. Yet the voice felt… reptilian. Cold. Calculating.

"The cookies," it insinuated later, as I stared blankly at a spreadsheet at work. "Remember the melt? The sweet surrender? The way the chocolate coats the shame..." My stomach growled, not with hunger, but with a deep, gnawing want that felt alien and overwhelming.

The psychological twist wasn't just the whispers. It was the certainty that Frank was their source. His stillness became unnerving. His unblinking stare felt like judgment. When I approached his tank, he wouldn’t scuttle away like usual. He’d just… watch. And the whispers would grow louder, clearer, dripping with contempt for the morning aspirant and giddy encouragement for the evening wreck.

"She pities you, you know. Brenda. Thinks you're weak. Pathetic. Buying your virtue and your vice in the same fluorescent hellhole."

One evening, the internal pressure became unbearable. The whisper wasn’t just about cookies anymore. It was a corrosive commentary on my entire existence, my failures, my loneliness. It filled my head as I stood paralyzed in the snack aisle, the family-sized bag of double chocolate chunks in my trembling hand.

"Look at you. Two faces. Both lies. Which one do you hate more? The fraud or the failure?"

I dropped the cookies. The bag split open on the linoleum, scattering dark chunks like broken promises. Brenda glanced over, her expression a mixture of boredom and faint annoyance. I mumbled an apology, scrambling to pick them up, my face burning. The whisper chuckled, a dry, rustling sound in my mind.

"See? Even cleaning up your mess is pathetic."

I abandoned the cookies, grabbed the nearest bottle of wine – something harsh and red – and fled to the checkout. Brenda scanned it silently. I couldn’t meet her eyes. The whisper was a constant hiss now, a litany of my worthlessness. As she handed me the bottle in its thin plastic bag, her fingers brushed mine. Her skin was warm. Human.

Frank’s tank felt cold when I got home. He was hidden in his little cave. I poured a large glass of wine, my hand shaking. The silence was thick, oppressive. Then, as I took the first bitter sip, a single, crystal-clear thought sliced through the fog, colder than any whisper:

"One of them has to go."

I froze, the wineglass halfway to my lips. The thought didn’t feel like despair. It felt like a solution. A terrible, inevitable solution whispered not by my own fractured mind, but by something ancient and cold watching me from the shadows of the terrarium. The duality was unsustainable. The judgment – from Brenda, from the world, from the lizard on the rock – was unbearable.

The health nut or the glutton? The aspirant or the failure? Or… something else entirely? The whisper had offered a third option, chillingly simple. Eliminate a witness. Silence a judge. The line between my own crumbling psyche and the malevolent intelligence I projected onto Frank blurred into nothingness.

I looked at the terrarium. Frank’s tiny head emerged from the cave entrance. His black eyes fixed on mine. Unblinking. Knowing.

The wine tasted like blood.

`Part 3: Cold Snap of Silence`

The whisper had crystallized into a command, cold and sharp as broken glass. "One of them has to go." Brenda or Frank. The witnesses. The judges. Their silent observation was a constant pressure, a spotlight on the fracture splitting me down the middle. The health nut recoiled in horror. The glutton? The glutton saw a path to peace. Quiet. An end to the exhausting duality.

Frank, in his glass cage, watched with those unnerving, obsidian eyes. He knew. He’d been the source, the insidious voice poisoning my thoughts, amplifying the shame until it was a physical weight. He was the architect of this unbearable tension. Brenda was just… collateral. A human reminder. But Frank? Frank was the root.

The health nut screamed internally, a fading echo trapped in the cage of my own skull. It’s just a lizard! You’re sick! Get help! But the glutton, fueled by weeks of corrosive whispers and the cheap red wine burning in my gut, smothered it. This wasn't about the lizard. This was about the voice. The judgment. The constant, grating commentary on my pathetic existence.

Peace. I craved absolute, crushing silence.

Frank needed his tank misted. A nightly ritual. The health nut had done it diligently, ensuring the perfect humidity for his delicate skin. The glutton saw an opportunity. The solution wasn't in a grocery bag tonight; it was already in my hand. The spray bottle. Filled not with lukewarm water, but with the icy, clear liquid I kept in the freezer for emergencies – pure, undiluted isopropyl alcohol. Lethal to a reptile. A swift, cold snap.

My hand didn’t shake. That was the terrifying part. The duality dissolved in that moment, replaced by a terrifying singularity of purpose. The health nut was gagged and bound somewhere deep inside. The glutton? The glutton was just… me. The real me, perhaps. The one capable of this.

I approached the terrarium. Frank didn’t retreat into his cave. He clung to his basking rock, head tilted, those black eyes fixed on mine. Pathetic, the imagined voice seemed to sneer. Weak. Always cleaning up messes you can't handle.

"Not this time," I whispered aloud, my voice flat, alien even to myself.

I lifted the spray bottle. Adjusted the nozzle to a fine, targeted stream. Frank blinked, slow and deliberate. Almost… challenging.

I squeezed the trigger.

The fine mist hit him directly. Not a gentle misting, but a focused jet. It drenched his tiny, scaled head, his jewel-toned back. He jerked. A violent, unnatural spasm. His tiny claws scrabbled frantically against the smooth rock. A silent scream seemed to echo in the sudden, suffocating quiet of the room.

I kept spraying. Methodical. Cruel. The alcohol wouldn't just poison; it would burn, freeze, strip the moisture from his fragile body in seconds. His movements became jerky, desperate. He tried to crawl, to escape the invisible fire, but his limbs betrayed him. They stiffened. Twitched. Then went horrifyingly still.

He lay on his side on the damp rock, one tiny leg extended, the other curled beneath him. His vibrant colors seemed muted already under the harsh terrarium light. His eyes, wide open, stared into nothing. The black pools held no more knowledge, no more judgment. Just emptiness.

The silence wasn't peaceful. It was vast. Consuming. A void where the whisper had lived. I stood there, the empty spray bottle dangling from my fingers, the sharp, medicinal smell of alcohol thick in the air, mixing with the damp earth scent of the tank. No triumphant surge. No crushing guilt. Just… numbness. A profound, hollow stillness.

I looked at the tiny, still body. The witness was silenced. The judge was dead. The voice was gone.

But the numbness began to crack almost immediately. A cold, sick dread seeped into the hollow space. What had I done? The thought wasn't a scream, but a chilling whisper of its own. I hadn't silenced Frank; I'd unleashed something else. Something colder. Something that now lived inside me, staring out through my own eyes at the consequences of the silence I’d craved. The duality hadn't been resolved. It had been consumed by something infinitely darker. And Brenda… Brenda was still out there. Remembering the kale. The cookies. The split.

The silence pressed in, heavier than any whisper. It was the silence of a tomb. Frank’s. And perhaps, mine. The glutton had won. And it had left only ashes.

`Part 4: The Weight of Acquittal`

The fluorescent lights of the courtroom hummed, a sound far harsher than the ones at FreshMart. They bleached the colour from everything – the worn wooden benches, the stern face of the judge, even Brenda’s usually ruddy complexion as she sat stiffly in the witness stand. She looked smaller here, diminished, her green apron replaced by a cheap navy blouse.

"Ms. Henderson," the prosecutor began, his voice smooth as oiled plastic, "you witnessed the defendant, Ms. Arden, in your store twice daily, correct?"

Brenda nodded, her eyes darting to me, then quickly away. "Yes. Mornin's and evenin's. Regular as clockwork."

"And could you describe the difference in her… demeanour? And purchases?"

Brenda shifted. "Mornings, she was… brisk. Focused. Healthy stuff, y'know? Kale, them fancy berries, kombucha. Evenings…" She hesitated, twisting her hands. "Evenings, she looked tired. Worn down. Different. Cookies, frozen pizza, wine. Big bags of cookies."

The prosecutor let the image hang: the virtuous shopper and her shadow self. He turned to the crux. "And the day of the incident involving the lizard… did you notice anything unusual about Ms. Arden before she purchased the isopropyl alcohol?"

Brenda frowned. "She was… jumpy. Dropped a whole bag of cookies, scrambled to pick 'em up like they were on fire. Looked… haunted. Grabbed the biggest bottle of rubbing alcohol we had, paid without lookin' up. Mumbled somethin'."

"Objection! Hearsay!" My lawyer snapped, rising half-heartedly. He looked bored. Overworked. He knew the animal cruelty charge was flimsy; it was the why that hung heavy.

"Sustained," the judge intoned. "The witness will refrain from characterizing the defendant's mutterings."

But the seed was planted. Haunted. Jumpy. Buying industrial-strength solvent after dropping cookies. The jury, a collection of weary faces, shifted in their seats.

Then it was my turn. My lawyer, Mr. Davies, approached me cautiously, like I might shatter. "Ms. Arden," he began, his voice unnaturally gentle, "tell the court about Frank. Your leopard gecko."

I straightened. Finally, someone would understand. "Frank wasn't just a pet," I declared, my voice ringing with a conviction that felt pure, righteous. "He was… an infiltrator. An agent of chaos." A juror in the front row, a woman with tight grey curls, blinked rapidly. "He whispered," I continued, leaning forward. "Constantly. In my mind. Criticizing. Judging. Amplifying every failure, especially my… my dietary inconsistencies." I saw Brenda flinch slightly at the word. "He knew about Brenda's silent contempt! He fed on it! On my shame!"

Mr. Davies cleared his throat. "And these… whispers… they commanded you?"

"Not commanded," I corrected, impatient. "They revealed the truth. The unbearable duality. The health facade and the necessary collapse. He showed me the only path to peace: silence the source." I looked directly at the jury, willing them to see the cold logic. "It wasn't murder. It was pest control. On a psychic level. He was a parasite in a jeweled skin. The alcohol… it was a cleansing. A purification." I sat back, satisfied. The clarity of it was luminous. Frank had been the enemy. I was the victor.

The prosecutor’s cross-examination was a blunt instrument. "Ms. Arden, did Frank the gecko ever speak audibly? Did anyone else hear these whispers?"

"Of course not," I scoffed. "He was subtle. Insidious. Reptilian intelligence is cold, patient. He worked through suggestion, through amplifying my own doubts."

"Reptilian intelligence," the prosecutor repeated flatly, turning to the jury with an expression that said, Need I say more? "So, you killed your pet lizard because you believed it was telepathically tormenting you about your grocery shopping habits?"

"It was self-defense!" I insisted, my voice rising. "Psychological self-defense! He was eroding my sanity! Look at the pattern! Brenda saw the split! The lizard exploited it!" I gestured wildly towards Brenda, who shrank back in the witness stand, genuine fear flickering in her eyes now. Not contempt. Fear. Of me. The recognition sent a jolt through me – finally, she understood the threat Frank had posed. Finally, she saw the strength it took to silence him.

The state psychologist droned on about "delusional disorder," "projection," "psychotic break." Words. Meaningless words trying to cage the profound truth I had acted upon. They presented the spray bottle, the empty terrarium photo. Clinical evidence of a necessary exorcism.

The judge’s summation was ponderous. He spoke of the value of animal life, the clear evidence of premeditation (buying the alcohol), the "disturbing nature" of my testimony. But the charge was only misdemeanor animal cruelty. The lack of prior record, the psychologist’s insistence on treatment over incarceration…

The verdict came quickly: Guilty. But the sentence was probation. Two years. Mandated psychiatric counseling. Twice a week.

Mr. Davies patted my arm. "Best we could hope for, under the circumstances. Avoided jail time."

I barely heard him. I stood, the hum of the fluorescents suddenly louder. Guilty? Of cleansing my own mind? Of removing a hostile entity? They simply didn't understand. They couldn't grasp the cold, reptilian menace Frank had truly been. The judge was still talking, imposing conditions, but the only sound I truly registered was the absence. The beautiful, profound silence where Frank's whispers used to be.

As I walked out of the courtroom, a free woman bound only by therapy appointments, I saw Brenda hovering near the exit, waiting for a bus or a ride. Our eyes met. The fear was still there, raw in her gaze. But now, I saw something else beneath it. Respect? Perhaps awe at the decisive action I’d taken, the darkness I’d faced and conquered. She looked away first, quickening her step down the courthouse steps.

I took a deep breath. The air outside was heavy with exhaust and the promise of rain. The duality was gone, burned away in the cold fire of the alcohol spray. There was only me now. Whole. Sane. Victorious. I knew the therapy sessions would be tedious, filled with more of those meaningless words trying to pathologize my clarity. But I could endure it. I had endured Frank.

I needed groceries. The thought surfaced, clean and simple. No mission, no shame. Just… food. I turned towards the bus stop, the weight of the probation papers in my bag insignificant next to the glorious, permanent silence in my head. Brenda would see me again soon. And this time, she’d see only one person. The real one. The sane one. The one who had finally taken control.

Thank you!

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