Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror Read Online Free Page B

the Deli counter as I reach for the bin of peas.
    A voice startles me.
    “What did that customer want?” Justus demands.
    The bin slips from my hands and peas spill onto the floor. I watch green pellets scatter.
    “He wanted a salad,” I say, falling to my knees, as if I’m about to beg for mercy. Crawling around the Salad Bar, I attempt to scoop up wayward peas.
    “And what did you tell him?”
    “We close at seven.”
    “Did you mention we have salad kits?”
    Justus sweeps his hand toward the far wall of the department, residence of ready-to-eat Cobbs and Caesars.
    “I, ah—I forgot about the salad kits.”
    “Then I guess I’d better let him know.”
    “Sorry.”
    “I’ll speak to you downstairs, Sadie.”
    Squishing several peas beneath his shoes, Justus heads to Deli and the customer.
    Speak to you downstairs means I’ll see you in my office. His office is down in the basement, not far from Produce. But I’ll let Justus search me out and find me at my workstation.
    That suits my plans.
    Clenching my teeth, so I won’t cry, I finish cleaning the Salad Bar. A tear plops onto the sneeze guard, and I swipe it with my gloved hand, leaving a smear of Ranch dressing. I promptly spray the glass and wipe away all evidence.
    I took this job thinking it might be fun, thinking cutting fruit and vegetables all day would be low stress. But Salad Bar has proved to be more pressure than I can endure. I imagine Justus giving me my notice, imagine my mortgage coming due and I can’t pay, imagine no money for groceries, electricity, gas, my phone—not even wireless. My life will be a barren waste. I figure there’re two paychecks between me and the homeless shelter.
    Tears roll down my face, drip from my chin, and rain into the bin of sliced cucumbers.
    Stifling a sob, I push the salad cart toward the freight elevator. To stop the tears, I bite the inside of my cheek, so hard that I taste blood.
    Sadie the Sadist doesn’t cry.

    I’m back in my corner, waiting.
    Liam left a while ago, but I know Justus is still in the store. I checked the meat locker for his bike and saw it by the sausages.
    I’ve been thinking about Sadie the Sadist, wishing I could be like her. Sadie the Sadist wouldn’t feel jittery at the thought of seeing Justus, wouldn’t panic at the sound of footsteps.
    I’ve stocked the Salad Bar for tomorrow. I’ve washed the bins, the food processor, the utensils. I’ve wiped down all the counters, swept the floor, emptied the trash. I even cut another case of corn so it’s ready to be shucked first thing tomorrow. The last thing I'll do is mop.
    Now I’m sharpening the knives. Of course, Sadie the Sadist is a figment of my imagination, an imaginary friend, but the more I think about her, the more real she becomes.
    I pick up a chef’s knife, catch her reflection in the blade.
    She winks at me.
    Sharpening knives isn’t easy. My left hand tingles so much, I can hardly grip the chef’s knife. Forcing my fingers around the handle, I draw the blade through the sharpener.
    “Sadie.”
    My heart jumps.
    I glance up.
    Night is the only time the floor is clear of crates, so I can see across the room with no obstructions. Justus stands at the door, arms folded over his chest.
    “Got a minute?”
    He walks toward me.
    “I need to finish—”
    “What’s our number one priority?”
    “Umm—corn?”
    “No, Sadie. Customer service.”
    “But you said—”
    “Customer. Service. Is our number one. Priority.” He enunciates each word as if I don’t speak English.
    Imagining his Adam’s apple beneath the blade, I pull the chef’s knife through the sharpener.
    “Sadie—”
    My gaze meets his.
    Justus must read something in my eyes, because he grabs my wrist.
    The knife slips from my hand, clatters when it hits the floor, and glistens on the beet-stained concrete.
    “You need to mop,” he says.
    “I plan to.”
    Stooping, I reach for the knife.
    So does Justus.
    The blade slices my skin.
    I