Bedtime Stories for Purple Girls, Chapter Five: Love Thy Neighbour


Bin day. Suburbia’s day of acting civil. We all put our bins out in a row like good little children as mummy taught us. Recycling bins on the left and normal garbage on the right.

This morning should have been like any other. I woke up to a big noise. My cats panicked and hid under the bed. I went to the front door to check if I could bring in my bins. Bit of a yes and no problem. The bins were still filled with garbage. Bloody hell. A selfish person parked their Nissan in front of my bins. I guess the row of bins down the road wouldn’t have been any hint that bin day was on, I thought sarcastically to myself.

Rotting garbage and maggots for a week. Australian weather is good for breeding such delights. What could I do?

I put a little note on their car.

“Get ready to reap what you sow.”

Little neighbourhood notes were fun. It was amazing was a trolling could achieve. Hopefully, karma will get them somehow this week, a flat tire or a parking ticket. At least this is what I have to believe.

It was much easier when I lived on acreage. The only neighbours I had problems with were the local possums. They jumped from the nearby gum trees onto our roof and held techno parties. Unfortunately, suburbia is more full of people than possums.

I remained hopeful. We all have our off days, a rush day, no better car park.

The usual cat response occurred a week later on bin day. They ran helter-skelter for my bed, hiding for their dear lives. I opened the door as the garbage truck was leaving my street. There it was again. More rotting garbage. That damn car. It seems my message did not work. What else could I do? A banana in the exhaust? Sugar in the oil tank? Sounding a tad illegal if I’m caught.

What to do? My knowledge of cars is pretty limited. Spark plugs exist but I am not sure where. Coolant is important but I am not sure exactly what it does. I don’t want to blow up the car. Tinkering with the gas line is a thing but what is a gas line to begin with? Spray-painting ‘asshole’ on the car is pretty tempting.

I walked back into my house and slammed the door. Having coffee usually calmed me down. I poured water into the kettle, got my favourite cat mug and waited for the water to boil. As I did I heard an ambulance siren outside my house.

Emergency vehicles are always awkward. It feels wrong to gawk at someone’s else misery, but like an oncoming crash, you can’t turn away. I opened my front door. There was an ambulance parked behind the Nissan. Police tape was also around the car. Forensic officers were dusting the steering wheel for prints. Forensics removed the body bag from the boot of the car.

Well, this is more awkward. A wave of guilt washed over me. Was the owner the dead person in the boot, or is the owner a murderer. Garbage day wasn’t so important after all.

To be continued

My writing style is dark, disturbing and gothic.

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