Cranberries

I’m staring at her and under the fluorescent lights everything is blue, blue, blue. Her mouth is slightly open and I can imagine what her breathing sounds like. But that isn’t the point. The lines around her eyes are pink and holding back tears. It is a heartbeat, and then I understand.

She knows I am here for her.

 It’s obvious by the way her eyes flick with a miserable hope as my pupils meet hers. The mop in her hand looks heavy by the way she is gripping it, but anyone with real eyes can tell her strength has been beaten out of her long before her shift started.

The can of cranberry sauce in my grip feels so miniscule and indifferent to the pounding echoing through my head. Everything seems stoic and silent with the strength of its pulse.  The mere thought of my original attention being directed to the can is delirious, and the idea sends a shiver of ignorant disgust down my spine. It is only me and her and the fact that I know exactly what she needs in this second, what the world needs in this second.

I take a step forward and I can see her hazel eyes are brimmed with tears and I wonder how long this manager has been doing this to her. I wonder how long she has tolerated and I wonder how long she’s hated. I keep her glance for only a moment and then I am walking toward her. The weight in the can shifts again and now my brain is regarding it as a weapon.

And I have never felt so convicted in my life.

Hot coils of anger spiral out in my arms, and I grit my teeth at the thought of what I am about to do. What I have to do. He is standing just out of sight, behind the doorway strung up with strips of plastic. I cast her one last glance, and her bright hazel eyes are following me. She is unaware she is staring, she is unaware that she is pleading. She has been waiting for someone to save her for some time now, waiting even for herself to finally stand up, to say something, anything. The thought brings a bitter taste to the back of my throat and I find myself wishing that this can of cranberry sauce was a brick.

Somewhere in the back of my head I can feel my mother asking where her nice holiday went. Demanding what the hell happened. Needing to know why I suddenly broke, why everything came cascading down to this one flicker in time. I am thinking of her as I shove past the hanging plastic, the cool temperature of the refrigerator section immediately nipping at the hair on my arms.

The manager is taking inventory, but I can no longer see his red shirt and blue apron. I can see only scum, only swine, only a life force that has the desperate desire to be extinguished. The rage is boiling hot in the back of my throat now and my vision starts to blur. I can see my mother again, only this time through a child’s eyes. I see her collapsed in the kitchen and sobbing, her work uniform still on and her hands wrapped around her face. She is afraid and I have never seen someone so petrified in my life. I realize that there is no justice, not for the ones that are silent. Not for the ones who cannot bear to fight back.

“Did you touch her?” I find myself asking, and my voice is cold and still. It seems foreign against the poison rage that is building in my blood. The manager swivels and I can see in his eyes that he is a sneaky and idiotic man. He starts to stutter, an excuse ready to drip from his lips. I repeat, this time the blinding anger leaking into my tone. He takes a step back, his too-blue eyes flashing to the already bent can in my hands and then to the girl behind me. My knuckles are white, because I already know the answer, and I already know the end to the story.

“Sir-,“ He starts, and I shove him to the concrete floor. I want him to admit it. I want him to comprehend how wrong he is, and how disgusting. I want him to say the words out loud so he can hear them in his own throat. But it is too late, and justice is served. The can of cranberry sauce splits open and pours onto the concrete, staining it red with the bittersweet smell.