Horrific sequel to yesterday's bin story
She rounds the corner of her street, peering left to right to check for ghosts, strangers in black or anyone with two teeth sharper than the others. No one. Clouds gather as she approaches her house. A low rumble of thunder growls in the distance.
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.
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.
Ahh! haha! Sorry for your frustration. I totally understand what you're feeling. You just want it done, so I don't blame you if you want to scream. :)
ReplyDeleteBy the way, thanks for visiting my post and the birthday wishes.
Take care and have a great week ahead.
Shey, I do want to scream. I do, I do. But that would only give the neighbours even more to talk about ...
ReplyDeleteAhh, I feel your pain.
ReplyDelete