Underground Hatred - My Hero Origins (MHO)

1: Bench of Trauma

Word Count: 1856

(Kat)

"That'll be eleven fifty-six, sir."

The wallet in the man's hands slowly opened with his quivering, wrinkled fingers. Golden-brown eyes watched him from behind the counter, the mouth drawn to a tight line. Millions of eyes pressed glared from the stretch of the line, whispers and grumbles and cries echoing back to the sound of change hitting the pennies and nickels and dimes. Though the atmosphere was roaring with energy from all sides, the loose money crashed with a deafening boom, hitting the metal counter one after the other: paper and minerals, rips and rust.

Two five dollars and two one dollars presented themselves upon the counter despite the change straggling along. The girl behind the counter lashed outwards, her finger pointing to the paper money. The dread that once plagued her chest released. "I can use the dollars. You don't have to worry about making up the change for the purchase."

"No, no, it's quite alright," the man croaked back, smoker's lungs resonating in his tone. "I have to do my part to contribute to the health of the economy with change. Inflation these days..."

Sucking in a deep breath, the girl peered to the back of the line that managed to once wrap into an aisle; the line was diminishing, people migrating to other check out lines. General annoyance was on every face, the kids' crying increasing. The lack of speed was pushing everyone away. The pressure leaving helped lift a weight off of her sagging shoulders, but her stomach ached from how sour it had become with the faces that stared.

"There we go."

The girl turned her attention to the old man, finding him to be shoving his wallet back into his pocket. She reached out to count the change quickly. Her lips mumbled as she tapped each coin, her fingers wrapping around the wrinkled paper of the bills. Double checking the amount, she grabbed the money and shoved it into her register, typed a few keys, and a receipt spat out. She snatched it from its printing station and presented it to the man with a meek, half-hearted smile. "Here you are, sir. Have a nice evening."

The elderly man murmured something more about the economy's health, but walked out of the line with his two plastic bags in hand. She tugged her mind off of the previous customer and turned her attention to the new one: an exhausted mother with three rowdy kids.

A hand landed on her shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. "Kat, you can leave now. Your shift is almost over."

Kat peered her eyes over her shoulder, finding a middle-aged woman to hand over a kind, sympathetic thin-lipped smile to the girl. The relief of a familiar face allowed Kat's whole body to melt away from the tension that overtook her limbs. "Thanks, Michelle."

The woman, Michelle, gave Kat's shoulder a tighter squeeze in return with her lilac painted nails. Michelle took a step back, allowing Kat to slip out from her position at the register. Switching places, Kat opened her mouth to give a comment or two, but a voice spoke before her from the other side of the counter.

"Can you please cash out my groceries?" the mother snapped slightly. Peering back at her, one of her hands was on top of the youngest child's head, ignoring the fussing the kid gave.

"Yes, of course, ma'am," Michelle replied with a friendly tone that either avoided the mother's impatience or glanced over it completely. Then, turning to Kat, Michelle told her, "Go clock out. I'll see you tomorrow."

Not wanting to infuriate the mother any longer, Kat nodded as a way to say goodbye, lips turned up in appreciation.

Kat refused to look back as she moved away, afraid to face the wrath of the mother, but she mentally noted to thank Michelle the next day for the woman's aid. If Michelle never stepped in, Kat would be stuck at the cash register until closing—there was no doubt in her mind. The register was a job that no employee wanted to work; no one asked to switch positions during the day to relieve the cashiers. Sitting at the register was practically a death sentence of being overworked and criticized for the slightest of things.