Thief

I’m a thief. But don’t compare me to a common thief. I don’t steal for me.

When I first met the man, I was only eighteen. It was a mistake, getting involved. I was young and stupidly trusting. I thought he wanted to help me. We needed so much in those days. That first time he asked me to take something, I wanted to say no. He told me he had my little sister. He hid her somewhere. Blindfolded, scared in the dark. I took a box out of a stranger's garage to get her back.

He came back, time after time after time. On each occasion, he had another threat on her life. I stole to keep her safe. I never asked him why or what he did with the things I took for him. I kept going, even when my sister called me names. Her words hurt like cuts submerged in lemon juice. Rotten. Thief.

Gone.

I still stole for him, until he no longer needed his threats. I stayed until he felt more familiar, more like home, than she did. Every time, he asked for more. More things, more danger, more of me. I couldn't say no, even when my heart beat so hard I thought it would give me away. He didn't need his threats, but they still echoed loudly in my head.

Then, I almost died for his trinkets. I woke up in the hospital, alone, still bleeding. For him. He never came. Not through the trial, not the prison time. Not once I was back out in the world. Finally, I thought, he was gone. But I still waited for him, my breath catching when I saw a shadow move in the alley or heard a knock on my door late in the evening. I waited, alone.

It has been years, but he came last night. He held me close, and I was home. He whispered what he wanted me to take this time. On its surface, the task was simple. Steal a purse. The gleam in his eyes and the way he licked his lips as he spoke told me this was something more. I didn't ask, though. Why change course now? Instead, I nodded and hoped to be held just a little longer.

I’m a good thief. It wasn’t hard. He told me where the woman would be. I waited on the corner, invisible to everyone around me until I saw the right coat, the right hair, the right bag. I snuck up behind her in a crowd and bumped into her, gently easing it over her arm when I helped her back up.

She wouldn't have noticed until it was too late. She shouldn't have seen me at all, just remembered that she fell and - someone - had helped her back up. I should have escaped with my prize, running back to him without incident. Instead, our eyes met. Time froze then and held me fast.

“It’s you,” my sister said. “Where have you been?”

I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to tell her to run as far away from me as she could, that she had been right and I was rotten from his touch.

I am a good thief, but I don't steal for myself. All these years and I still steal for her. I shouldn't have forgotten, should have run with the purse still held tightly in my grip. Instead, I handed the purse back, stammering a quiet apology.

With a howl, he appeared from nowhere behind her. I begged for her life. He laughed and took us both instead.