You crawl, fingers slipping on the greasy plastic lining of a flattened takeout container slick with coagulated orange sauce. The bag shifts slightly with your weight, sagging inward with a wet creak. Your knees sink into something cold and fibrous—rotted lettuce maybe, or an old tissue soaked in God knows what. You push upward, one handful at a time.
A used coffee filter tears beneath your hand. Scalding bitterness fills your nostrils, saturating your palms with dark, mold-flecked sludge. You gag. Above it, the next layer is a tangled knot of thin plastic produce bags, snot-napkins wadded and stained with yellowish mucus, and a half-empty container of sour cream that’s exploded at the corner—its pale contents clinging like spoiled pus to everything nearby.
You slide halfway into the mess as you climb, your foot plunging through the bottom of a Styrofoam bowl still clinging to a crust of chili—Kristen’s chili. You taste bile. A hard object jabs your ribcage as you climb past it: a used deodorant stick, cracked open, white streaks hardened along its edge like waxy plaque.
And then—worse.
You heave yourself onto a flattened box of tampons, only to sink into something mushy and wet. The smell hits before your hands confirm it: soaked feminine pads, used, rolled loosely and not even bagged. You recoil, but you can’t go back down. Your palms slip on the plasticky surface as your knee squelches into something thick and coppery-sweet. The pad folds slightly under your weight, adhesive side catching on the plastic of the bag as you clamber over it, shuddering, breath caught in your throat. Blood. Clotted and dark, mixed with the stale iron reek of sweat and old latex.
You crawl across, body shaking. Your hands smear through more tissues, one still glossy with spit and streaks of half-dried lipstick—Kristen again, probably, wiping her mouth after the chili. The lipstick smells like berries. The tissue smells like death.
Another level up and your head bumps the underside of the bin lid. It’s cool metal, stained with hand smudges. You can see daylight around the seal where the garbage bag doesn’t quite reach the edge. You wedge your shoulder into the corner, pressing up.
It doesn’t budge. Not from this angle.
Then you hear it.
Thock-thock-thock.
Footsteps on the tile. Slow. Deliberate.
They’re getting closer. Each one causes a subtle vibration through the base of the garbage bin. The lid rattles faintly with every step.
A voice hums. High. Female. Familiar.
Taylor.
She’s walking this way. You can hear the slight shuffle in her steps, the weight in her hips. Maybe she’s coming for the chili. Maybe she’s coming to take the trash out.
This is your chance. Maybe your only one.
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