Innocence is only in the eye of the beholder. Like beauty. Some might call innocence beautiful, but in the end, it’s only a burden. Eureka – or Reka, as she calls herself – has the wan looks that normally accompany the innocent. Make-up is not something that she is interested in, not normally. Why bother, in her line of work? No one looks at her. No one takes any notice of the girl behind the register, swiping through their items one by one.
In the beginning, she’d managed a blush every time she’d had to swipe through a pack of condoms, or anything else worthy of youthful embarrassment. Soon, however, Eureka began to develop an equal disdain for her customers, staring at them blankly most days and only offering the smallest of smiles if they just so happened to be the slightest bit nice. She is a waif, blonde and bland. The clothes she wears are boring, second-hand, hand-me-downs. Most of the time they’re too big for her. Most of them time they’re covered by the apron she’s forced to wear as part of her uniform.
The store is one of the large department stores. It sells all kinds of things. The employees all look the same – with the same amount of boredom etched into their faces. Maybe it’s got something to do with the fluorescent lights. Some kind of subliminal messages seeping into their skin via rays of light.
There are the theories that Reka has.
But the truth is, Eureka isn’t innocent. It’s not as if she murders people in her spare time. Her bookshelves are modest, and she doesn’t ever watch TV. Her parents never believed in television. She still lives with her parents. In the attic. It’s usually quite cold in the attic, but Reka survives okay. Maybe that’s part of why she’s not so innocent. She feels neglected, maybe.
But even Eureka isn’t prepared for the way she breaks. Like a vase with a strong base, but which is dropped far too many times and finally shatters. A scattering of glass, to imbed into any who are not paying any attention.
The man sneers at Eureka. To him, she is nothing but a selfish youthish lout. He judges her by lumping her in with everyone else in her generation. This man, with his jacket with the Lamborghini badge over the pocket, complaining about prices.
“No, I want you to cancel the sale, and start all over again.”
“Sir, I—“
“Look, I know your type. You scan in doubles and you take the cash afterwards, right? That’s how it works…”
“No, sir—“
“Do you need me to call your manager over? Cancel the sale. I’m going to come around there…”
And then he starts to move. He starts to edge himself in behind the counter, so that he can watch Eureka as she scans each item in. Sure, she could stand there and do as she’s told, and be satisfied in the end when she’s right and he’s wrong. But she can’t. Not tonight. Because it’s been a long ******* night, and every single customer has given her lip over something. Innocence comes with a price. The higher echelon thing that they can walk all over the innocent, and there’ll be no consequences.
There’s a jar of Olive Oil on the counter. The really expensive kind. Eureka’s fingers – the nails chewed and bitten down to the skin – close around the neck. And, when the man is close enough, her lips curl down into a snarl. The jar swings in a wide arch through the air. First, there’s the dull sound of shattered glass. Next, the enraged shouts of the man whose head the glass had shattered over. He’s now covered in oil and tiny shards of glittering sand. Before he has a chance to retaliate, Eureka is swinging again – and there’s not only his shouts, but hers. Snarled screams as she continues to slash and gash at whatever skin she could find.
The masculine shouts of anger turn in to high-pitched screams of agony. Of course he lifts his arms in defence, but Eureka continues to slash and strike, drawing blood to the surface. Lots and lots of blood. He backs out of her stall and she follows. Glass has got into her hand, too – the bottle had splintered in her desperate grasp. And when she has no more glass to stab with, she launches herself onto the man’s back and starts clawing with her fingers instead.
The crowd gathers to watch. And of course no one tries to help. Phones come out to film the spectacle. The security comes ambling from wherever they were eating doughnuts, the rubber of their sneakers squeaking on the hard white floor.
In the beginning, she’d managed a blush every time she’d had to swipe through a pack of condoms, or anything else worthy of youthful embarrassment. Soon, however, Eureka began to develop an equal disdain for her customers, staring at them blankly most days and only offering the smallest of smiles if they just so happened to be the slightest bit nice. She is a waif, blonde and bland. The clothes she wears are boring, second-hand, hand-me-downs. Most of the time they’re too big for her. Most of them time they’re covered by the apron she’s forced to wear as part of her uniform.
The store is one of the large department stores. It sells all kinds of things. The employees all look the same – with the same amount of boredom etched into their faces. Maybe it’s got something to do with the fluorescent lights. Some kind of subliminal messages seeping into their skin via rays of light.
There are the theories that Reka has.
But the truth is, Eureka isn’t innocent. It’s not as if she murders people in her spare time. Her bookshelves are modest, and she doesn’t ever watch TV. Her parents never believed in television. She still lives with her parents. In the attic. It’s usually quite cold in the attic, but Reka survives okay. Maybe that’s part of why she’s not so innocent. She feels neglected, maybe.
But even Eureka isn’t prepared for the way she breaks. Like a vase with a strong base, but which is dropped far too many times and finally shatters. A scattering of glass, to imbed into any who are not paying any attention.
The man sneers at Eureka. To him, she is nothing but a selfish youthish lout. He judges her by lumping her in with everyone else in her generation. This man, with his jacket with the Lamborghini badge over the pocket, complaining about prices.
“No, I want you to cancel the sale, and start all over again.”
“Sir, I—“
“Look, I know your type. You scan in doubles and you take the cash afterwards, right? That’s how it works…”
“No, sir—“
“Do you need me to call your manager over? Cancel the sale. I’m going to come around there…”
And then he starts to move. He starts to edge himself in behind the counter, so that he can watch Eureka as she scans each item in. Sure, she could stand there and do as she’s told, and be satisfied in the end when she’s right and he’s wrong. But she can’t. Not tonight. Because it’s been a long ******* night, and every single customer has given her lip over something. Innocence comes with a price. The higher echelon thing that they can walk all over the innocent, and there’ll be no consequences.
There’s a jar of Olive Oil on the counter. The really expensive kind. Eureka’s fingers – the nails chewed and bitten down to the skin – close around the neck. And, when the man is close enough, her lips curl down into a snarl. The jar swings in a wide arch through the air. First, there’s the dull sound of shattered glass. Next, the enraged shouts of the man whose head the glass had shattered over. He’s now covered in oil and tiny shards of glittering sand. Before he has a chance to retaliate, Eureka is swinging again – and there’s not only his shouts, but hers. Snarled screams as she continues to slash and gash at whatever skin she could find.
The masculine shouts of anger turn in to high-pitched screams of agony. Of course he lifts his arms in defence, but Eureka continues to slash and strike, drawing blood to the surface. Lots and lots of blood. He backs out of her stall and she follows. Glass has got into her hand, too – the bottle had splintered in her desperate grasp. And when she has no more glass to stab with, she launches herself onto the man’s back and starts clawing with her fingers instead.
The crowd gathers to watch. And of course no one tries to help. Phones come out to film the spectacle. The security comes ambling from wherever they were eating doughnuts, the rubber of their sneakers squeaking on the hard white floor.
