Shrine for a Burglar
I ducked into the living room, keeping my breathing at a low, slow rate. Sticking to the system, I went towards the living room to snatch the easy valuables and get out. There, surrounded by candles was a large wreath surrounding someone, probably a dead relative —
Wait, that’s me.
The display shined before me, the only light in the living room. It was saturated with photos of me climbing into people’s windows. Every one a shot from less than a block away from me. My back suddenly felt very hot and I checked behind me for a camera.
Nothing.
I approached the table that everything was set upon and saw that there was a plate on the edge, lights directed towards it like spotlights. It held a ring. My favorite target.
My ears hot, I immediately looked for some sort of identification of me. A name, location, or something other than photos of me. All of them were clear enough to be able to tell who I was. I started tearing them —
“Does it please you?”
I spun around with my hand on my combat knife, my heart drumming away. In front of me was a blonde woman in a nightgown smiling quaintly. She seemed pleased to see me. Her arms were behind her back and she swayed slowly from side to side. She could probably hear my heart by how loudly it was exploding in my ears.
“Whu — “ was all I could manage.
“Does the shrine meet your standards? Does it have everything you need?”
“Sh — shrine? Why do you have a shrine of me? Have you been stalking me?”
She shrugged without emotion.
“Th — wha — you cree — that’s illegal!” I finally managed, hissing at her.
“Oh, and breaking into houses isn’t?” she was curt. I definitely struck a chord.
“Who are you?” I asked, backing towards the front door slowly.
“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” she said coyly.
I continued inching to the door. Her eyes just followed me, her smile wide. I finally reached the door handle and tried turning the door open, but it was locked. My eyes darted towards it and saw —
“Why did you padlock your door?” I ventured.
“Answer my question first,” she was firm.
“I…” I breathed, “I asked who you were first.”
“I’m interested in you. I just want to know who you are.”
“How are you interested if you don’t even — “
“Stop asking questions! Answer mine first!” she yelled, stomping towards me. Her face was red with anger. Or hate.
I gripped my knife tighter, but couldn’t bring myself to pull it out of its sheath when she was defenseless. She was fuming, only feet away from me.
“I’m nobody,” I tried.
“LIAR!” she screamed, and I ducked away from her instinctively. She was stepping closer. I was afraid that she’d woken up the neighborhood by now.
“Get away — “
“Who are you?” she asked innocently. “I just wanna know,” she pined, prettily.
“I’m…” she was right in front of me, “I’m William.”
“What’s your last name Will?” she whispered.
“Please stop — “
“Your. Last. Name.” every syllable only accelerated my heart.
“Reaves! It’s William Reaves, please just let me — “ I suddenly coughed up blood. She had pulled a knife from behind her and stabbed me in my gut. She began twisting away at my intestines. I collapsed on the floor, my stomach both throbbing and engulfed in fiery pain.
“You stole the ring I gave my mother,” she explained. I could only cough in response, each heave worse than the last.
“She had Alzheimer’s. Do you know that ring was the only thing that let her remember me? I went in last week and she kept asking where her ring was. She didn’t want me to help because he wanted to talk to — she was asking where — she couldn’t recognize…” her voice broke.
“She couldn’t recognize her own daughter!”
She knelt down and began twisting and turning the knife deeper within me. I cried out in agony as her tears fell onto me.
“PLEASE!” I screamed. It was the only thing I could get out between crying out. She only shook her head, tears welled in her eyes. She then pulled out the knife and put it on my neck. I could only shake my head one last time.
“Just as you’ve taken everything I had in my life, I’ll take yours.”