By Dillon Jackson
The morning of February 21st was cloudy and dull, with the chill of a late-winter day; frost clings to barren trees lining the concrete jungle surrounding my small apartment. I open the fridge, and to no one’s surprise but my own, only condiments decorate the few rails inside.
“Mommy! Cereal please!” Maisie says with a wide grin.
I pick up the lonely milk carton, but a quick shake reveals it won’t be enough. Above the fridge sits a box of Frooty-O’s, mostly empty as well.
“Come on, honey. We’ve gotta go to the Store.”
The wallet in my pocket feels lighter than ever as I lock the door behind us. Maisie clings to the hem of my skirt as we traverse the icy sidewalks. Beggars roam senselessly beside us, eyes glazed over and showing varying degrees of insight. They never ask for change; they shamble on and are themselves shambled by.
The Store is no more vibrant than the depressing buildings encircling it. It rests as a makeshift town hall of sorts, imposing and cruel. Several other families braved the cold with us, their hurried tracks turning the fresh snow to a slosh of black street water. The Store stood here for as long as I can remember. Stone pillars give way to simple sliding, glass doors.
“What?! You can’t just raise the prices whenever you choose to!” Mrs. Harrison screams at a sorry-looking cashier.
“Ma’am, I don’t set the prices. There’s nothing I can do.” The cashier says.
“This is bullshit! I demand to speak to someone in charge!” Mrs. Harrison screams, even louder than before.
“I’m sorry ma’am, I can’t just call my manager for each guest that demands it. The Store won’t like it, and I just can’t afford to lose this job… There is an alternate payment method if you need to use it, but there’s nothing I else I can do. I’m sorry.” The cashier says. The air here feels heavy; Maisie clutches the hem of my skirt a little harder as we pass the checkout lanes. Mrs. Harrison seems to regain her composure slightly, but she now looks more nervous than angry. Her eyes accidentally meet mine, and in that instant, we understand each other as more than strangers for a brief second. I bow my head and close my ears to the following discussion as we pass out of respect.
“Mommy, look! They have Fruity-Loops! Can we get those instead?” Maisie says. 15 dollars for one box of Fruity-Loops? Maybe Mrs. Harrison had a point. I can’t really remember when the prices began to rise so steadily, but even Frooty-O’s are now 13 dollars per box.
“Well, honey…” I begin to say, but the sentence dies in my throat before I can finish. Maisie looks almost heartbroken, and shouldn’t children get to have something nice every once in a while? “You know what, Maisie? Sure, grab us a box of Fruity-Loops. Let’s treat ourselves!” I say, with a grin. Maisie beams at me, then immediately grabs a box of Fruity-Loops. My phone buzzes.
Attention Resident #246: You have not paid your rent for this month. Please kindly report to the 5th floor for reconciliation. Thank you.
My heart sinks. They know I can’t pay… That’s why they ask now, instead of a week from now when my paycheck comes in. A cursory inspection of my wallet reveals no more money than had been there before I had entered the Store.
“Come on sweetie, momma’s gotta go to the 5th floor.” I say, gently nudging Maisie along.
“Do we get to ride the elevator?” Maisie says, excitedly.
“We do.” The smile I’ve forced upon my face doesn’t feel like it belongs to me, yet I wear it for my daughter all the same. A million pity-ridden eyes follow me to the elevators, wincing at every ding as the elevator descends. They know my eventual fate, and yet I am uniquely called to accept it.
The 3rd floor exudes extravagance. The cashier’s desk, made of rich mahogany, is beset by an exorbitant office backdrop behind semi-frosted glass. A rather large Japanese Bonsai tree sits next to the entrance. Nameless neatly dressed drones chat around a nearby watercooler, glossing over the day’s events and hardly notice me approach the stand. The cashier’s eyes carelessly glance across my own, yet his brow furrows.
“Hello there, what brings you in today?” The cashier impatiently fiddles with the pen in his hands, turning it end over end.
“I got a text saying my rent is due… But I can’t pay it today. Is there any way I can push back my payment to next week?” The chickens at the watercooler nearby fall silent. Maisie looks up at me nervously.
“I’m sorry, but it’s against policy to offer any extensions… We can, of course, take alternate payment if you wish.” He says, his mouth curling into a tight-lipped frown. The pen had stopped turning, freezing in place between his fingers. His eyes passed over Maisie from behind the desk with the barest hint of pity.
“Fine… Just get it over with.” I numbly whisper.
“Resident Number?” He asks.
“Number 246.” I squeeze my daughter’s hand a little tighter. The cashier reaches under the desk, retrieving a shiny plastic scanner shaped similarly to a pistol. He gently places it against my forehead, and I feel myself begin to sweat.
Beep!
I feel a small kind of uncanny pressure inside my head, like a migraine waiting for the wrong moment to appear. The cashier gives me a small, sad smile and a nod, before pulling the scanner away from my forehead.
“There. You’re all paid up #246. I hope you have a good day.” He said, absentmindedly recovering the pen and giving it another slow twirl between his fingers.
I almost forget to nod. Maisie leads me to the elevator by the hand, still clutching her cereal to her chest. She goes back to school tomorrow, but I can’t really remember the day she started anymore.
Day after day, I gain new memories.
Day after day, I forget who I was.
Lonely Reflections 
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