Two bin bags and a set of keys

I take the first bin bag out, and then I take the second bin bag out, and the front door clicks shut. Me, a full-grown woman in dinosaur patterns and loose silk. Eleven AM with no keys or phone and perspiring. No socks, no bra.

Last night, I flung out prying men, pulled the shutters and tightened the lock. My journey becomes Aunt Kelly, two kilometres deep in suburbia.

All the streets line up to watch me tiptoe down the white lines of the street, avoiding the broken glass and dead dogs. They fold their arms and whoop. Some call me by my name, or take photos with sharp flash guns.

I wrap my arms around my chest and pin my eyes to the ground. They march behind me and chant cellulite nursery rhymes. Men up ahead cut one another over the shape of my breasts or the value of my arse, my best friends huddle by the pound-shop where I bought makeup.

I empty the second bin bag on the street behind me to cut the feet of my followers, pull it over my head, and mould out two holes for eyes. Inside, the rotten chicken and pasta sauce and flies. My tongue slides down my throat to plug my oesophagus and I taste blood. My hands free and limp by my side.

I see everybody now, with stride in my step and polyethylene on my lips. With every step, the street lowers its head and looks away.

By the time I arrive at Aunt Kelly, my silk pyjamas dyed with rot, my hair a three-day curry dipped in flies and urine.

My blistered feet drip blood all the way behind me.

From my bag, I watch her jerk open the door and yelp and fling her hands in the air.

She says, Oh my gosh.

Finally, she says with tears in her eyes. You visited your poor old aunt.