Peter turned the tap, and water flowed perfectly into the bucket.
His little home was now complete. He had completed the whole thing without Grace’s knowledge. If she was going to ignore him, he’d find some solace in his own home.
Well, the shed would become his kingdom. And the actual house, the battleground.
Peter filled the mocha pot and placed it on the camping stove. Big stickers declared in red lettering to not use in a confined space, but he lit it anyway. He imagined Grace one day coming out to the shed to check on the smell and find his body after he’d died of carbon monoxide poisoning. Or the entire shed exploding, sending debris and body parts across the neighbourhood.
He sat on the couch and watched the blue green flames lick at the base of the aluminium.
Peter had everything he needed. He’d run an extension cord from the house and had a builder’s light and a bar fridge. The garden hose gave him quick access to water.
He’d piss outside.
Which meant he’d make various visits into the house for bits and bobs. That way, they’d know he was still alive.
The simple fact would annoy them in indescribable ways.
But he wasn’t about to give up without a fight.