Wealth and Forbidden Love

The smell hit me well before I opened the lid. I gagged, but wasn't shocked. The trash cans in this neighborhood always smelled of spoilt milk and old leftovers. My hands covered by a pair of thin plastic gloves fumbled as I reached for the bags of trash even though it was smelling.

My body hurt, my fingers so cold, yet I kept going. I had to. I mean, if I didn't-would anybody else?

"Come on, Peace," I told myself, hoisting up another black bag. "Just make it through this day."

I mopped the sweat off my forehead and looked up and down the narrow alley. It was still dark, and the street lights threw great long shadows on the wet concrete.

It was an ever busy city, it was in the serenity of the early morning hours when most had gone to sleep and the world once again was quiet. I wouldn't know; I loved this silence-not by choice since that was the time I needed to work before the rest of the city started with their day.

I grasped the last sack, slinging it onto the truck. That signature thud echoed through the alley; blocks away, a cat shrieked. I blew out a sigh, rubbing my grimy hands against my frayed jeans.

It was covered with odour from the dump site, apparently, some kind of grisly reminder of what I was stuck in.

"How's it going, Peace?

I turned to find Mrs. Keller peep out of her door, a scowl etched across the wrinkled complexion of her face. Always watching, hawk like, to make sure I never missed one bin or would immediately phone the landlord on me.

"Fine, Mrs. Keller," I said with a forced smile, "just finishing up."

"Make sure you get it all this time, she snarled, her hand jiggling toward the crumpled newspaper near her stoop. "You missed that last week."

I just gritted my teeth and nodded. "Will do."

She was inside now finally, and I exhaled, dropping to a crouch to pick up the paper. There were times when it seemed like my whole life was spent cleaning up after other people-never having time, energy for anything else. I once had dreams. Now they sounded so remote and almost fading away.

I finally came to a stop and began heading up to our small apartment complex-an old building that, over the years of neglect, had brick slowly discoloring.

Airing my lungs, I ran up several staircase at a time. My heart was well in front of me, churning over thoughts of Grandma. She hadn't been doing too great lately, and now an unusual foreboding feeling came upon me.

Indeed, it creaked its familiar tune as I opened the door.

"Nana?"

"I'm here, sweetheart," her weak and soft voice replied from the other room.

I went in quickly to see her sitting on a worn-out couch, wrapped into blankets. Pale-skinned, her hands slightly shivered while holding onto a mug of hot tea. A smile crossed her face as she saw me, but I could feel her pain.

"Peace, how are you? How is work?" she asked so softly, I could barely hear her.