Horrific sequel to yesterday's bin story
Outside her house, the black bin waits like a reproach. She lifts the lid.
(Violin sounds like in 'Psycho'.)
She drops the lid and the slam of it echoes in the deserted street, like cruel laughter.
It has not been emptied.
Old rubbish lurks in the bottom of it, festering, moulding, mocking.
Weeping hot, terrified tears, she fumbles in her pocket for her mobile phone. Her hands can hardly hold it steady. She dials the number, waits, speaks, holds her breath. Her heartbeat thumps against her breastbone like a warning drum.
"They haven't taken the bin," she says. She glances behind her; is anyone listening? The street narrows its eyes at her and she looks back, ashamed.
"Which colour did you put out?" His voice is like a dagger, sharpened, and its blade slices through her soul.
"The black one," she says.
Silence. Like the grave, deep and bottomless. She clicks a button, cuts him off. She knows he is about to say the words 'it was meant to be the green one'.
And she knows that if she heard them, she would scream. And scream. And scream.