An Unholy Stink

Mitchell opened his fridge to an unholy stink.

He grimaced, waving his hand in front of his face, and pushed the door closed again. I knew, he thought to himself, that I should have thrown that crap out before I left. Two weeks away, I really should learn by now.

Taking a deep breath, Mitchell opened the door again. Inside, a carton of milk sat with its spout open. It was just past the expiry date when he left, but had been forgotten. Underneath, a bag of lettuce sat, more liquid now than lettuce, the dark green sloshing at the slightest jostle. He gagged a little, grabbed the bag, and threw it in his garbage.

Next, the yogurt. That usually kept okay, he thought to himself. He opened the lid, though, and was met by blue and grey and green fuzz. Some new life form sprouting, no doubt, soon to be sentient. Best to discard.

A cucumber went next, in a little plastic sleeve like a condom that would stop nothing, and surrounded by the milky white substance of decomposition. Into the bin.

Mitchell closed the door to take a breath, but the smell was everywhere now. He gagged again, took a breath in, then opened the door.

Two carrots, doused in the leakage from the cucumber. A pineapple, more brown than yellow. And that carton of milk.

He took the milk and started pouring it down his sink. A thin trickle came out, so he righted it and looked inside. Still half-full. He shook it, and the white stuff inside quivered like jello. Gross, he thought. He checked the expiry date. It was dated for four months back. Well, I guess that explains that.

Mitchell dropped the milk into the garbage bag, then walked out of his apartment, tossed the whole thing down the garbage chute, and returned, ready to give the whole fridge a scrubbing before he went to get replacement food.

 

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