M

y hair falls limply over my sweaty brow as I make my way up the smooth black drive. I’ve walked far to get here, and timing was simply luck--I could be doing this to a household that wasn’t empty. My job might be easier today, but I want to make getting out before the owners arrive home a necessity. No use getting caught.

The road is long and twisty, a smooth black.  It’s almost as if the evening light is begging for me to come out of the shadows, but I remain on my path of darkness, not willing to expose myself to any possibly-watching neighbors or picture-hungry paparazzi. I guess the celebrity I’m about to steal from doesn’t think much of security systems or public restraints, else it would have been much harder to enter. Perhaps that is because there is nothing worthy to take, or perhaps there are cameras that my clever eyes somehow missed, and the police are already on their way. To this thought, though, I pay no mind. There’s no backing out. I can’t walk away empty-handed.

I hate the way my threadbare bag thumps emptily on my back, hate the way my shoes squeak as I hop up the porch steps. With a wince, I take a sweeping glance at the fine landscape, staring at all the lofty trees and beautiful firework arrangements of flowers. If it were a Sunday, and Skylar had actually invited me here, I would be out back by the firepit smoking hot dogs on a stick with her and her newly-wed. My shoes would be respectfully clean, and the smell of fresh-clipped grass would cling to them as a pleasant reminder that service is best when no pay is neither expected nor offered in return. But Skylar didn’t invite me this time, and I only feel that much worse when I think about how I’m letting her down.

I sneak the key out from under the bristly grey doormat, a completely obvious location for the little piece of metal, and slip it inside the keyhole, turning until I hear a click. It occurs to me that if Skylar ever finds out I broke into her house, things will never be the same between us again. I hesitate. The grumble in my stomach convinces me, though, and before I know it I’m stumbling into the couple’s foyer.

The rug keeping my muddy boots from dirtying the hardwood floor is clean, and probably smells good, too. It takes me a minute to register that there aren’t lights in my eyes–the bright white walls and glassy urban interior design is drastically different than the alleyways in the city that I awoke to this morning. I am reminded of how much can change within the few hours of daylight, how a child could come from a place like this and end up somewhere like the gutter…

Tears of pain and hate sting my eyes, but it’s not for the house. I decide not to think about it, tightening my left-hand-grip on my backpack strap and letting it bump against my back.

Instead, I slip off my dirtied old sneakers and place them beside the door. My feet aren’t much cleaner, blistered and stained with grime off the streets, but their footprints will be easier to hide. Plus, I like the cool, smooth feeling of hardwood on my toes.

I stroll casually out into the center of the entry room, remembering the staircases and hallways and doors that will lead me to the rooms I plan to visit. I am such a stranger here, amongst the rich, tasty glory, and I feel smaller than even my short height and fat-lacking bones usually leave me to feel. The chandelier seems too fake, especially after growing used to drying laundry on wires as the only sight to look forward to when glancing skyward. The alleyways I sneak around in don’t have countless picture frames hosting gleeful memories lining their walls, either.

I see a lovely party favor coffee mug from some LA party that Skylar and her spouse had recently attended, bragging the sponsoring company’s name on its side. The mug must have been left behind by her husband; Skylar isn’t the messy type and wouldn’t have let it stay out.

My fingers itch to snag the clay cup and move to the next room, but instinct tells me to look harder. The street marketers and pawn shops won’t be as interested in a tea mug as they will be in… say, a Grammy award.

I grin, almost laughing at my luck as I bound towards the shelves displaying her husband’s awards. I knew he was an extremely successful artist within the entertainment industry, but I never dreamed he’d leave his personal items out for a beggar like me.

“How generous of you,” I thank him under my breath, picking up a moon man from the MTV awards and stuffing it inside the backpack dangling off my shoulder. I then pick five more awards, one by one, off the shelf. Satisfied with what the room has given me, I waltz out, my emotions taking on a confidently nasty swing. A frown works its way over my lips, but I keep moving.

I make my way back out into the foyer and descend the staircase, marvelling at the twisty stairwell protruding from the wall. The stairs do not touch each other–they are merely shelf-like supporters sticking straight out from the wall, completely stable and sturdy. I let my fingers run along the railing, which has miniature pillars of metal drop down to touch every other stair to keep itself up, all the way to the top.

The hallway I find myself in is even grander. Tall windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling, giving me a plain view of the grounds outside and the fields beyond. The city is on the other side of the house, I realize. The vastness of the place has disoriented me, and my sense of direction has been off for a time. This is discerning. Once again, I become aware of how unwelcome I am in this house, and I hurry to the first visible door for an escape. The walls seem to lurch down, scolding me for coming here, and suddenly the fear that I will make the structure angry if the door is opened too quickly invades my brain.

For this reason, I only creak open the wooden door, slipping into the warm room and the safety it offers from the hallway outside.

It is a bedroom. Their bedroom.

The hardwood floor is perfectly clean and smooth, besides the dark jeans lying at the foot of the bed. Peppermint and vanilla candles are placed in the windows, which are smaller than the ones in the hallway. A grand view of London stretches away outside, telling me I am now on the other side of the house, and I stare for a moment before moving to one of the large walk-in closets.

Posh. Everything inside is designer, has the piney scent of perfume or cologne–I can’t tell the difference. I swallow and breathe in the scent carefully, thinking it would be much too heavy, but it isn’t. A weak amount, just barely detectable. I bite my tongue. I don’t want to like the place that they both call theirs, their personal space, their nest together, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find peace in it. 

In the featherweight darkness, my fingertips run over velvety blazers, black and white tee-shirts, tight black jeans, assorted colors of plaid flannel. I stop at a shelf supporting a dark hat, its brim wide and circular. I pluck the article up carefully and place it atop my head, then hurry out of the closet, almost tripping over the assortment of leather boots near the door. The rest of the clothes are tempting, but I have not come on a mission for warmth, and we really have enough clothes anyway. Maybe this fall I will need to come back. For now, I leave it all be.

A clock on the wall ticks precariously, and I can feel time pushing, now. The two lovebirds could be home any minute. Why I feel this way so suddenly, I can’t explain. Quickly, I snatch an expensive, masculine watch off the snow-white vanity, adjusting the hat in the mirror above so it falls fittingly over my shaggy hair. Then I flit to the matching nightstand, where a glass lamp and several diamond pieces of jewelry call my name. Reluctantly, I turn away from the lamp, but the body ornaments are too much to resist–I’m thinking of how much I could collect from a jeweler in town. I stuff a few of the accessories into the pocket of my bag, but not enough to be completely noticeable. There are many other silver and gold chains left.

The fluffy white bed is messy and unmade, the sheets peeled back at two different places. I scowl as I think of love; the throbbing in my chest makes me hate it even more. Because I am angry, I strip the secondary pillows of their fancy silver-trimmed cases and leave them underneath the ones that remain unrobbed. Then I assess the room to see if there is anything else I can take that would go unnoticed to Skylar and her husband for a time.

A remote lies on the glass table underneath the flat screen, and a silver and black coat hanger near the door has a large-collared, navy blue coat hanging from one of its hooks, but other than that, I see nothing desirable enough to take.

With a sigh, I secure the items into the pockets of my backpack, then tiptoe out of the room to find the kitchen.

This time the hallway is not as foreboding. The weight of my backpack somehow makes me feel stronger, more accomplished, maybe even proud; the feeling in my gut whispers otherwise.

“You’re succumbing to street-ratting, congratulations,” I mutter to myself, then shoot a grimacing smile at a picture of Skylar’s wedding on the wall before flitting down the staircase.

I know the dark feeling of greed is sinking into my brain, just as it does every time I am forced to do this to feed myself and the others, and this only adds to my urgency. When I reach the kitchen, I rifle through drawers and cabinets, claiming silverware and knives that will come in handy. I will never share the knives with the others, though–they will abuse their abilities and resort to violence. I can only trust myself with these possible weapons. But they’re Skylar’s, and what if they fall into the wrong hands?

I shudder as I think of what might happen if Demitrii or Sierra start a collection again. Reluctantly, I put many of them back, keeping the sharpest one–I believe it’s a filleting knife–for myself. I then grab various boxes of crackers and chips, slowly making my way to the fridge.

There are many things I want to take. Milk, eggs, butter, fresh fruit and vegetables – but what really catches my eye is the eggnog. My mouth starts to water, but I know I have to leave it. Desolately, I take a cheese block, some tortillas, a lettuce head, and a few pieces of fruit, then shut the fridge.

I’m hungrier than I ever could have imagined. The smell of the food somehow reaches through the packaging and into my throat, dangling teasingly above my stomach, and I pitch forward, catching myself against the counter dizzily. My empty belly growls, hating me, threatening to send sharp pains through my abdomen. I stuff everything into my bag, which is nearly full, then force myself to settle for a small banana hanging with its brothers from a hook on the bottom of a wall cabinet.

It’s hard, but I only nibble the fruit away. The last time I ate was probably two days ago, with Sierra and Ian at the club in town. That cheap burger was really good, but it nearly made me sick. The banana I am eating tastes even better in comparison, especially after forgetting the taste of something that isn’t processed. I’ll have to ask Skylar where she buys fruit.

My throat declines the next swallow, and I cough, forcing myself to relax and swallow the food. This isn’t mine. It’s Skylar’s.

I run out of the kitchen to the dining room, trying to flee the thought.

“Finders, keepers,” I spit at the silver candelabra in the middle of the dining table, grabbing it from its place and taking another bite of the banana. I calm a little, and I am able to this time swallow the piece of food. I sigh and glance around, shrugging the heavy pack higher onto my shoulder. “This is all,” I decide, then turn to leave the room at a run. I am really punching the clock, now.

I make it to the foyer, my heart beating fast, and I can almost feel the doorknob between my fingers. I don’t want to look up; something else could catch my fancy.

I dash into the room, my feet slapping against the wood. It’s as if the sound of ticking carries to me from some other room inside a clock, every tock another step down a staircase and I must reach the bottom before–

I slam into something warm. I’m thinking that the walls must be heated, and I glance forward in annoyance, feeling foolish for running into it as I back up.

But immediately my annoyance melts away into shock and fear. My shoulders slump numbly as I tilt my head back to look up at the disapproving stare watching me from above. He’s smirking a bit as he reaches for my shoulder. My muscles are slack, useless–I couldn’t run if I wanted to. There’s just icy guilt.

“Let’s have a little talk, Rast,” Skylar’s husband says.

“Harry,” she warns from behind him, but he’s already pushing me into the living room. My bag drops with a dull thud onto the floor, and I barely have time to glance back at it before he’s talking again, lifting the hat off my head and onto his own.

He takes a seat on the comfortable sofa, motioning for me to sit next to him. “How are you, Rast?”

My fingers tremble, but I stare him dead in the eye, wiping my face void of emotion–something Sierra taught me to do. I’m taken aback slightly by his hospitality, but I’m no fool. The storm is coming.

This is so hard to believe as I stare into his sorry, almost pitiful green eyes, though. I don’t want to say his name this time, either. “I’m alive,” I mutter. “You?”

Skylar stands in the doorway, and she’s just as nervous as me, her shoulder hunched and her stance a tense one. “I’ll go make sandwiches,” she says brightly, but her voice is watery and thin, and she shoots her husband a warning glare. I feel slightly reassured, but he and I have never exactly been fond of each other, and now…

“I’m well, thank you,” he nods, wetting his lips. He seems to be searching for small talk.

“If you haven’t called the police yet, I’ll do the honors,” I say smartly.

“Police? Oh, no, Rast,” he frowns, tilting his head in confusion. I hate the way he says my name, through those lips that have taken for granted Skylar’s kiss a countless number of times. It makes me sick. But I still stare back blankly, even as he continues. “I just… we’re worried, Rast.”

This makes me laugh, but it’s empty and doesn’t reach my eyes. “Worried? I’m fine.”

He glances at his display shelf of awards and raises his eyebrows at me. He has a point.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. The words would have been easier to say if Skylar were here. They don’t mean as much when I say it to him, even though I try to be sincere.

“It’s alright. Do you need anything? I hope you don’t mind that I’ll be keeping my awards and my hat, but other than that…”

“What? You’re going to just let me keep the stuff? I’m not stupid, Harry!” I scowl, leaping to my feet furiously. He looks surprised. “What are you going to ask of me in return? That I slave away for you in your beautiful house? No, you know what, you can keep it! Keep it all!”

Skylar appears again, a plate of sandwiches in her hand, and I force myself to straighten. She approaches casually, offering me a ham and cheese sandwich, and I take it but do not eat. She passes one to her husband as well, and he thanks her before taking a large bite.

Silence grips the room for a moment.

“So, a couple hundreds? Six?” Harry asks suddenly, swallowing his bite of food and leaning forward to take out his wallet.

I am confused. “What?” I say again. “No! Ridiculous, tonterías, you psycho!” I stamp my foot. “Just tell me what you expect in return!”

“Rast, I’m not making you do anything,” he says impatiently, and I falter, but I am not fooled.

Skylar places her hand on his arm, and they exchange a meaningful glance. I close my eyes and pull at my shaggy hair, feeling a sob arise.

“I was stupid to come here,” I growl. “I’m sorry.”

“C’mon,” her husband says, rising to his feet. I follow him in defeat, and he leads me out of the room to the front door. My vision is blurry, but I’m trying so hard not to cry. I take a small nibble of the sandwich, glancing back to look at Skylar thankfully, but also to show her I am sorry.

She just smiles, and I am frustrated again as I turn back to Harry to see him offering my bag. The music awards lay aside, placed on the floor like a little metal army of success. I swallow, and accept the bag with trembling fingers, careful not to so much as brush his hand with my skin. He offers a wad of cash, and I accept it, staring at him hatefully.

I am uncertain whether he is being generous or deceitful. But when he smiles and opens the door, I do not hesitate.

I am running, faster than I ever have before, straight down the drive. My feet scrape against the gravel, but I grit my teeth and ignore it. It doesn’t really hurt that bad; I am used to this sort of flight. The shadows have grown much larger, and I have no problem sticking to the shadows, darting down through the darkness to the gates.

“Wait! You forgot your shoes!”

Maybe I imagine the yell, but I do not look back. I just continue running, the guilt weighing me down, the confusion clouding my brain. All I can do is run. Run away from everything. Run. I peel around the corner with my heels throbbing, careening into the street, bursting away from the gates of Skylar’s home.

And I am gone.