Bromidic Subsistence She stared at me again today. The moment I entered the grimy little shop I felt that claustrophobic countenance rippling over my person. The tiny hairs on my arms danced as if desperately seeking shelter. Not wishing to give away anything that may be tactically beneficial to that hunched thing behind the counter, I casually put my arms behind my back, interlacing my fingers then made my way down the far, dim isle that runs almost the full circuit of the paper shop from door to counter and headed into the furthest corner in order to collect myself. Though no longer visible to me, I could still feel the drips of her decaying flesh as they slapped against the floor, the whole of the floor and most of the goods that adorned the shelves of that grimy little paper shop that is positioned at the end of a terrace comprising of many similarly dirty storefront retailers was veneered with the tacky residue of the decaying flesh and fat. It clung to everything, including myself, marked as all patrons of that grimy terrace storefront. The stress crippled my brain, making me unable to recall why it was I entered this place, no doubt some petty banality, cigarettes or soup maybe? The dim light became oppressive, almost to have weight like delicate grey folds of chain male, unable to bare the retching exhalations I rushed to the counter. I daren’t request anything from the shelves and cabinets situated behind the dripping hunched creature for fear of evoking that gelatinous drawl so I grabbed some small piece of confectionary from its place in a moulded plastic display rack. Dropping the little money I had on the counter I fled through the door and back to this room.