Grocery shopping was a necessary evil. Alex had decided this a long time ago. He understood why his mother had hated doing it, why there had never seemed to be any food in the house. Except creamed corn.
They had always had creamed corn. He'd counted seven tins of the sweet yellow mash in their cupboard once.
But no one ever ate it, so why buy it?
Alex had his own house now, with his own cupboard. A cupboard he didn't need to stock with creamed corn.

He pulled two cans of sliced beetroot off the shelves and placed them in his trolley. Alex liked beetroot. It turned your piss red if you ate enough of the stuff.
He pushed the trolley onwards, vaguely irritated by the broken wheel that kept rattling and changing their course. He kicked it in the hope it might correct the problem.
It didn't.
Sighing, he pressed on.

Shopping was boring and monotonous. Wandering up and down the isles picking out items that would be consumed within a week, packaging and scraps discarded in the trash. Not very rewarding, and certainly not interesting. But it was unavoidable.
Even when he wasn't in the supermarket, the concept invaded Alex's thoughts. Did he have enough shampoo, was it time to buy a new toothbrush, did he need two litres of milk this week or just one?

Alex wondered if everyone else thought about these things as much as he did. Did it annoy them so impressively, too?
Did doctors think about what they needed to buy for dinner half way through an operation? Did bankers desperately try to remember what their wives had asked them to pick up on the way home as they played with peoples accounts? Did police officers? Did murderers?
Did they stop mid-slash, their hands buried deep in their victim’s guts, and think "Damn, I forgot the potatoes"?
Did they mentally write out their shopping lists, as they carefully carved open the body before them, lovingly fondling a liver, their fingers lost in loops of bowel?

Alex didn't think so.
He found it odd when reading about the fervour with which serial killers approached their task. They became one with the blood and gore, not allowing everyday humdrum to encroach on the work set before them: the body and a sharp knife.
Alex didn't understand this.
The mundane edge of reality always slipped in when he was at work.
Always.

He wheeled his trolley to the checkout, neatly arranging his consumables on the belt.
A bored, but pretty little thing greeted him in the manner that she'd been trained. Peroxide hair and braces-bound glossy smile.
Pretty, in an inadequate teenage way. Her nametag read Rosie.
Alex smiled back, reluctantly.

He'd gone and depressed himself with silly thoughts. He didn't need to be like everyone else, so passionate about their work that they forgot they needed to eat, drink, and sell their soul to consumerism.
His teachers had always told him he was special, that he was unique and irreplaceable. Even if they had said it in sympathy, and with a trace of concern, he knew they meant it. That's why he had stopped cutting his own arms and chest. He was special.

He revelled in that each time he cut open pretty little girls, licked their wounds and kissed their hearts. So what if he thought about the price of eggs while he did it?
Special.
The cashier, Rosie, smiled her metal smile as she handed him his change.
Her hand brushed his as he took it.
He shivered.
And smiled a genuine smile.
Maybe he would show this one just how special he was.