I need to get some milk, let's go.
Wander onwards to up to the corner shop I go, tiptoeing over iridescent spills along with abandoned companion waste to name a few hazards. Swiftly breezing through the jitty into a tame white collar suburbia. I walk face down headphones on to collect milk from the local merchant, on the way passing a few doddering mundane people. She's pulling into the driveway, they're walking a dog together, and he's taking the trash out. I mistep into the puddle it had left but wipe my shoes on the curb moving on.
Kids running in the distance giggling while brandishing big sticks, a police car passing atop the road missing them, what trouble were they causing? I approach the store door and enter in. Find my milk, make small chatter as you do, hearing a distant siren yet again. The police station isn't far so yet again I disregard it. We finish our chinwag as I wander back to whence I came. Alas, something was feeling off... My step slick from earlier, the night darker since I'd entered what with the sun setting hastily in winter. Making my way home I observe the police car from the kids earlier was parked along my path instead, as if to follow where the kids had eventually gone.
The horror sets in as i see it wasn't the kids at fault, but rather Mr Miller. The bin bag from earlier, not dripping mouldy food but rather his late wife who he'd claimed passed a few weeks ago, Jane. Officers got a call that his bag spilt while trying to dispose of it, presumably not long after I'd passed the scene... We'd had no reason to question when he'd let us know of her passing, as they'd been at his cabin up in the Peak District. He's said she passed in her sleep and an ambulance took it from there, alone he came home and let the neighbourhood know of the situation.
In reality, he'd bludgeoned her with a mini fridge while packing to come home after an argument. Taking it too far to then realise too soon, he chopped and lobbed her into the big cooler for picnic. Drove home, placed her in the basement chest freezer to forget about her till the time to dispose came along. Alas, he would of been better off not bringing her home. To make matters worse, I've now connected that that means I've had a bit of Jane with me from here to the store and back, when I stepped in that presumed trash puddle earlier...
No one knows why he brought her home rather than bury her there. This wasn't how you get away with murder. They say the average person passes 3 murderers in their life. I don't know whether I'd rather this be my first and never come across the rest, or have it be my third so it's over and I've had my share...
You never know the story of who your walking past.
A 100% purely fictional story, just to be clear.