Sort of like the My Chemical Romance's Killjoy fics, but not. It has ghosts :3 Rated V for future reference.
A figure sloped wearily through the supermarket, it’s body hidden and undefined in the shapeless fleece jumper and baggy tracksuit trousers. Only when it leaned down to pick a can of soup from a shelf could you see that the it happened to be more of a her.
She sifted through the identical packets of pasta, her movements jerky, uncoordinated. Stopping, she picked one up to check the bottom. To a casual observer nothing was different, but to the figure everything had changed.
The spaghetti packet seemed to shout out at her, in a way that reminded her of and American TV show host. ‘We promise that our product is made solely of natural ingredients, giving it an authentic Italian taste and texture.’ She chuckled to herself, and wondered what moron would believe that. Surely everyone knew that the Real Italia Co. Was owned by Kraft (like most other things) and Kraft used more chemicals in one packet of food than you’d find in a swimming pool. The word promise alwaays made here feel ill, it’d lost all meaning to her a while back.
‘They won’t hurt you. I promise they won’t get near you.’ He walked away, leaving her to shake on the floor.
But that promise had been fake. They had hurt her. Every promise after that had been fake too. Why did she even bother? She set the packet back down on the shelf. On the outside she was calm, unnaturally so, nothing to hint at the storm raging inside. Bloody Kraft. Her fist clenched and unclenched. How could the world be so blind? How could they not realize they were just drones, slaves in the machine of Kraft’s making? A server came over, touched her shoulder. Asked if she was ok. No, of course not! She wanted to scream at him, shake him until he understood. But she didn’t. She walked empty-handed out into the street and sighed softly. Time to go home. To face the ‘family’, tell them she’d found no food to eat. Just Kraft.