Jane can’t believe her neighbor’s nerve, sneaking into the laundry room to steal her detergent and ruin her clean clothes. Every week, she finds her laundry on the floor, wet and dirty. Determined to teach her a lesson, Jane devises a plan that will make her neighbor think twice before messing with her again.
It all started with the detergent. I live in an apartment complex with a shared laundry room, and for the most part, things have been fine. Sure, there have been minor issues with neighbors now and then, but nothing serious. That all changed when Bryony moved in.
At first, it was just little annoyances. I noticed my detergent disappearing much faster than it should. I chalked it up to my imagination or perhaps being more generous with my loads.
But then, the disappearances became too frequent to ignore.
One day, I found my newly washed clothes strewn across the floor, wet and dirty. I felt a gnawing sense of violation, but I tried to convince myself it was a mistake.
Then, one afternoon, I walked into the laundry room and froze. Bryony stood there with my bottle of detergent, a smirk playing on her lips as she poured it into her machine!
I was shocked.
“Hey, Bryony, that’s my detergent you’re using,” I said, my voice shaking with restrained fury.
She looked up, her smile widening, and said, “Oh, sorry, Jane. I thought it was free for everyone to use.”
Her audacity left me momentarily speechless. “No, it’s not. We each bring our own supplies!” I finally managed to say, trying to keep my composure.
Bryony shrugged and put the detergent back on the shelf with exaggerated nonchalance. “Whatever, Jane. No need to make a fuss.”
I could feel a surge of anger rising, but I forced myself to stay calm. “It’s not just about the detergent. My laundry has been thrown out of the machines, too. Do you know anything about that?” I asked.
She gave me an innocent look that didn’t fool me for a second. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jane,” she said.
Her blatant lies and lack of remorse made my blood boil. I clenched my fists, struggling to keep my cool. “Fine,” I muttered, turning away. But I knew I couldn’t let it go.
A few days later, I walked into the laundry room to find Bryony rifling through my freshly washed clothes. My patience snapped.
“Bryony! What do you think you’re doing with my clothes?” I yelled, my voice echoing off the walls.
She didn’t even flinch. Instead, she smirked at me, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Oh, just checking if you left any quarters in the pockets,” she said with a mocking tone, and then she walked out, leaving her own laundry behind.
I stood there, seething with anger, my heart pounding in my ears. How could she be so brazen and disrespectful?
My mind raced with thoughts of retaliation, but I knew I had to be smart about it. Bryony had pushed me too far, and it was time to take a stand.
Over the next few days, I paid more attention to Bryony’s laundry habits. She had a predictable routine: always doing her laundry right after me, using my detergent, and tossing my clothes out of the machine.
I knew I had to come up with a plan, something that would teach her a lesson without getting myself into trouble.
Soon, an idea began to form. I went to the local store and bought a bottle of bleach that looked very similar to my usual detergent bottle.
Back home, I carefully replaced the detergent with bleach, making sure it looked convincing. My heart raced with a mix of excitement and nervousness. I knew Bryony would strike again, and this time, I was ready.
The next day, after finishing my laundry, I left the “detergent” bottle in my usual spot in the laundry room. I pretended to leave but doubled back and hid around the corner. Sure enough, Bryony came in right after me, just as I expected.
I peeked around the corner and watched her. She grabbed the bottle, smirked, and poured a generous amount into her machine. She clearly thought she was getting away with it again.
As Bryony started her machine, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of satisfaction and nerves. Won’t you just love your clothes after they are washed, Bryony? I thought, smiling to myself.
Leave a Reply