Garden Shed.



Every day I see him go to the bottom of the garden. It’s a big garden; I can’t see the bottom of it. I think he goes to the shed to be alone. I see him go at night too. No torch, no light. I see him walk across the lawn barefoot and stay at the bottom of the garden for hours in the dark. I never see him come back. Always one way traffic. Sometimes he carries things; bags, large bundles, a suitcase.

I keep imagining horrific things going on at the bottom of that garden. I imagine he’s a British Fritzl, keeping people chained up in the shed. Generations of his own incestuous family, spirit beaten out of them, accepting their fate like cattle.

I don’t investigate. Better to let things lie. None of my business.


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