I’m like a ghost. I’ll be living in a dirt room waiting for the day to be close-
Er to the window in your home. I’ll be standing by the back door reaching the knife in my coat.
I’m gonna put to your throat, you sweaty piggy you’re a bad man what a fuckin sad way to go
Your mother raised you as a joke.
The glass shattered falling almost silently onto the placemat at the back door. A moment passes, a hand reaches in, clad in black from tip to elbow, grasping the silver doorknob, twisting, opening stealthily. Silently.
A thief in the night
Up stairs in his room he puts a cigarette to his mouth. Marlboro Red, 100’s. He flicks the lighter, puts the flame to the brown edge of the thing, breaths. Fire.
The smoke fills his lungs, fills his blood, his mind.
There is a knife on the bedstand
And in his hand, sneaking quietly making sure to make no noise is made. That nothing is seen. A shadow, a undetectable summer breeze - the place seems poorly furnished. Maybe this was a poor target. It seems quiet. He had seen no evidence of dogs and as far as he knew this guy was single. No family. No one would miss him if everything went wrong-
It always went wrong, he thought, taking another deep drag. Nothing is worth the pain he’d gone through, at least not to him. Nothing was worth much of anything. He moved to the mini-fridge he’d brought from college, wrenched it open (damn thing rusted) and withdrew a bottle of Guinness, Draught. He searched his simple white room for his bottle opener. Where the fuck was it?
Under the cupboard a hang some cutlery. Poor, unsophisticated. Just more shit from Wal*Mart. Call this living, the thief sighed. Maybe this was a mistake.
Maybe it all was just a fucking big mistake. Shit he knew a lot of what had happened was. He always loved that girl. If only, he thought, I had waited just a few more hours. He closes his eyes, a solitary tear falls to the cheap, ash and beer stained carpet. Sixteen hours, not even a day, and he’d have had it all. Probably got married, maybe have kids. Now it’s all dead end girls and alley way hookers. Nothing left for him. They say you only get one soul mate in your life.
Fuck that. He kicked aside a few bottles and found the opener, a litter gold thing…
He’d found it in the living room in a cupboard. A small glittery ring, small size, with what looked like a real diamond and not cubic zirconia like he’d have expected. He pondered the little thing, flipping it in his fingers, squinting. Sometimes the thief had moments. Ones where he stopped at thought about the little things people have in their drawers, chest and cupboards. Pondering the significance of a ring.
Of a kiss in the Dollar General down a few blocks down. It wasn’t their first but in many ways it should have been. Nothing had ever been felt before or after that was quite as magical. Playing in the lanes of the store, laughing, joking, then finally in solitude, that most significant kiss. That life changing contact, her velvet lips on his own rather parched ones. An angel he had thought. The passion was not brief. It felt like hours passing but really it was just a few minutes. And when it had passed, he remembered with a shiver, her hand venturing down his shoulder to find his hand. Holding it. Warming it. And his heart was on fire like it had never been on fire before or since then. If he’d only waited, had a little more patience-
Then maybe he’d not have made his first mistake of his career. Thing about mistakes in this line of work, they tend to also be the last. It wasn’t a trip of a fall. He simply decided it was time to go upstairs and see what was in that little room. He tiptoed slowly up a somewhat creaky staircase. He winced as the board beneath groaned loudly. Loud to him anyways. It was a noise, noises were loud. He slowly ventured forward, skipping steps he felt were loose, till finally, the door. He placed to fingers on the doorknob to twist it slow enough that no one would hear him. Latrine. Green tiling floor with some cracks, a toilet that could use some cleaning, a mirror on a whitish colored wall, a shower. He looked down in the dim light. There was something there, brown and peeling. Did this guy shit himself? He wondered. No, there was no smell. Curiousity over took. He reached down and took off his Wonder glove (one seize fits all, $1 dollar at the general store) and scratched at it. It came up it easily and, upon closer inspection, it was blood.
On the edge of the knife. It was his own, he sighed, his other addiction. He put the Guinness down and took another drag, kept to nestled in his dry lips and brushed aside his rapidly lengthening hair, reached for the thing. Picked it up. Well balanced, wooden hilt. Metal hand guard, six inch blade somewhat dull, silver with specs of rust and blood all along. He’d forgotten to clean it. Took his sleeve and scrubbed at it.