Safe Spaces

Outside the House

I hate doing chores.

I earn from sitting in front of my desktop computer, encoding and interpreting data. During my free time, I also spend either watching a good show or playing Xbox. So whenever Grandma asks me to do chores, my train of thought is interrupted. And so is my focus. And, therefore, whatever I'm doing.

Although my tasks are limited to washing and wiping the dishes. The helper does the remaining chores. So . . . yeah. Maybe this was just me, defending my lazy ass.

When our helper, Ate Matet, asked for a one-week vacation—well, not really a "vacation," as she told us her son was sick and she wanted to be the one attending to him—I knew I had to do all the chores. I couldn't complain, though; I was the one who told Grandma that I'd be the one doing Ate Matet's job for a week so she could visit her son. I mean, that's the most humanitarian thing to do.

But I kind of regretted it. I should've hired another one for that week, maybe.

Every Friday morning, a garbage truck would collect our trash. In our subdivision, a memo obliges us to separate nonbiodegradable and biodegradable garbage in transparent and black plastics, respectively. The transparent one should be placed in front of the gate so the collector could easily see if there were materials that should not belong there, while the black plastics should be put inside the garbage bin given by public officials. Tin cans, paper, PET bottles, and glass should be separated in labeled sacks, which will all be collected at the end of the month. This was an initiative of the homeowners association, which I appreciated.

In our home, we throw food scraps and leftovers in small biodegradable plastic bags first and then dump them into a larger black plastic bag, which would be then thrown into the garbage bin I mentioned a while ago every Thursday night.

That Thursday, I was working on a request when Grandma shouted, "Shanen, the trash!" I could have chosen to do it in the morning, but I knew myself better than anyone else—I wouldn't be able to wake that early.

So I got up and began getting the trash cans to compile the garbage into their respective plastics. I placed the transparent one in front of the gate and then walked a few steps of the sidewalk where the garbage bin was placed.

I was about to open the bin when it moved.

I cussed loudly then paused in shock.

"Damn it, nasty kids!" I shouted, thinking that some horrible child placed a poor cat or dog in the bin.

So I opened it.

And there, I found a boy with swollen red eyes, hugging his knees. He was not filled with filth even though he was surrounded by it, however. His pale white skin was so clean that I knew there was something wrong. Something was very fucking wrong.

I threw the black plastic bag in the air and ran as fast as I could toward the house. I wasn't even able to lock the gate. I just ran to Grandma, screaming how I found a ghost in the garbage bin. But she dismissed my claims and said, "Angels must be really playful, tryin' to teach a lesson."

I kind of forced Grandma to come with me so I could lock the gate; she did, even while teasing me what scaredy-cat I was, but I didn't tell her that I just threw the garbage bag in the air and left the bin open.

The next day, we were penalized with one thousand pesos. Grandma scolded me, saying I kept on throwing away money blah, blah, blah. But I didn't mind; I would rather pay a fine than to open that garbage bin again.

This is why I really, really hate doing chores.