The Bucket

On cold weekends I am haunted by memories of a plastic bucket I once lived with. His name was Eugene and he was from Canada. We were friends but we were never really close. Eugene had some unresolved trust issues from past experiences he never mentioned in enough detail for me to help him move forward. For most of the 7 months we lived together I felt more like his guidance counsellor than his room mate. It became harder and harder for him to leave the house and our conversations were mostly just me talking and waiting in awkward silence for him to respond Once my parents came over to visit and I introduced Eugene, but he ignored my Mum and glared at my Father. Before my parents left, my Father took Eugene outside and poured detergent and boiling water into his mouth. I knew it would be an issue. The next day Eugene looked pale so I took him to the doctor. It turns out he’d had a stroke and would require 24hr care. On the way home from the hospital I put him in the dumpster behind Coles. I haven’t seen or heard from him since. The lesson? If you’re a bucket, don’t tell anyone your ATM pin and then brag about your “huge divorce settlement.”