The morning mist still clung to the harbor when I found myself standing outside what used to be Johnson's Market. The faded "Closed" sign swung gently in the salty breeze, but through the window, I could see the bright new Discounty logo being installed. My aunt's voice echoed in my memory from our phone call last month - "Just come help me for a little while, it'll be fun!" She'd made it sound like a charming small-town adventure, not this corporate takeover I was witnessing.
I remember the first time I realized how deep this went. It was Tuesday, lottery day in Blomkest. The whole town would gather at what used to be Johnson's to check their tickets, exchanging gossip while waiting for the Super Lotto results. Now my aunt had me standing by the new digital display, ready to announce "Check out the latest Super Lotto jackpot result and winning numbers today" like some corporate mascot. The familiar ritual felt tainted, commercialized. Old Mrs. Henderson shuffled up to me, her wrinkled hands clutching last week's ticket. "Is it true they're closing Miller's farm stand?" she asked, her eyes watery. "Your aunt bought all his produce contracts yesterday." I forced a smile and pointed to the screen where the winning numbers glowed - 7, 14, 23, 31, 45 with Power Ball 12. The jackpot was $340 million, though nobody in our little town would see even a fraction of that money.
The truth is, I've become exactly what I never wanted to be - the friendly face of corporate greed. My aunt keeps secrets locked in that shed behind the store, making backroom deals with banks while firing loyal employees who've worked here for decades. Just last week, she let go of Tom, who'd been managing the produce section since I was in diapers. "Too expensive," she'd shrugged, as if dismissing twenty years of service was nothing. Meanwhile, she's got me charming local farmers into exclusive contracts, convincing them that selling exclusively to Discounty is their golden ticket. The irony isn't lost on me when I announce those massive lottery jackpots while watching small businesses crumble around us.
Yesterday marked a turning point for me. I was restocking shelves with generic Discounty brand products when young Lily Martinez came in crying. Her family's bakery, the last independent food business in town, had just closed after my aunt acquired their supplier. "Mom says we have to move to the city," she whispered, clutching two dollars for our store's generic bread. That's when it hit me - we're not just selling groceries anymore. We're dismantling a community, piece by piece. The lottery display flashed nearby, showing last night's $550 million jackpot that nobody won. All that money floating in the ether while real people here are losing everything.
I've started keeping my own records now. In the three months since I arrived, my aunt has acquired seven local businesses, fired fourteen longtime employees, and doubled her profit margins. She talks about expanding to neighboring towns, creating what she calls her "supermarket empire." Meanwhile, I stand by that lottery display every Tuesday and Friday, smiling as I tell people to "check out the latest Super Lotto jackpot result and winning numbers today." The numbers from last night were 3, 11, 19, 27, 44 with Power Ball 8 - not that it matters much when your town's soul is being auctioned off bit by bit.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just walked away. But then I see the few remaining employees who depend on their jobs here, and I stay - not for my aunt's empire, but for them. The lottery will have another massive jackpot next week, probably around $600 million if nobody wins tonight. People will still line up to buy their tickets, dreaming of escape while I stand here facilitating the very system that's trapping them. My aunt thinks she's playing some grand business game, but really, we're all just pawns in a much larger scheme - one where communities become customers and neighbors become competitors. The winning numbers will keep changing, but in Blomkest, we're all losing something more valuable than any jackpot.