Note from the Author: Read Leftovers first before reading this one!

I dare not throw it out. Not the shrivelled chicken and its mouldy coating. Not the hardened fries, or the rotten beans. I cannot throw out the black mess that was once a slice of lemon meringue pie. He’ll come back if I do. I just know it.

He said he’d be back. He said he was coming back for his leftovers. The second I get rid of them? That day will be the day of his return. He’ll find me and see that I don’t have his last meal any more, and he’ll punish me. He was in there for unspeakable crimes.

We argued. She said I was going mad, believing in paranoid fantasies that I’d be haunted by a dead prisoner. I returned home one day to find the lock had been changed. My belongings were in bags on the porch. And in the trash can at the end of the driveway…

I put my suitcases in the pick-up. I left the old key by the door. And from the trash can I dug out his last meal, bundled it up in a carrier bag, and stuck it in the back of the truck.

Even dead, he continues to leave victims. Even dead, he destroys lives. Even dead, he torments me.

I only brought him what he asked.

So why does he do this to me?


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