In the Dark

In the dark

         The window groaned heavily as he pushed it up, panting and looking around the street warily. The cold wind shrieked in his ears, and its fury beat against what little he was wearing. Soon, he knew, it would rain, and he would have to be away from here before it did.

         Gingerly, he lifted and pushed his left leg through the window. Nothing, he realized. There were no traps. Smiling, he climbed in.

         As he stepped into the house, he bit his tongue. He always did that whenever he felt excited, or when the anticipation was too much for him. When he was safely in, he looked around, keeping his ears sharp for any noise that would give away a person, if there were any in the house. But it was dark, and all that he could hear was the drumming of his heart against his chest. It seemed too loud, threatening to wake the entire neighbourhood up. But it didn’t. Carefully, he tiptoed across the room, his heartbeat getting faster and louder by second.

         It wasn’t as if he was doing this for the first time in his life. No, he had done it before. A few times, in fact. But that did not lessen the danger, did it? There was always the chance that he might be caught.

         But he did know one thing: the owner of the house, a young lady who lived all by herself, wouldn’t be the one to catch him. She was out; he had seen her going. He had camped outside the two-storey bungalow for a few days, and had observed all he could. He would have gone on longer, but his desire proved too much, and he knew that he couldn’t wait any longer. She always left at seven in the evening, going god alone knew where, and came back early in the morning, drunk.

         He was in the living room, and his mouth gaped at the plush sofas and cushions that were laid around. The television, its size really, caught his attention as well. Some people seemed to have everything, he thought. But he wasn’t there to marvel at the posh life of a rich woman; he was there to take he did not have. And he couldn’t linger.

         He passed a bedroom, and peeked inside, just to make sure that he was indeed alone. He was assured. Just as he was about to close the door, his eyes fell on the bed, and he saw something. It was dark, so he moved into the room, squinting his eyes, and realized that the things were clothes, a lot of them, and none of them without an expensive label. And they were all scattered on the bed as if without a care. He wondered if he should take it, but then decided against it. He would think about it later.

         He moved away from the bedroom, and made his way through the corridor, and found what he was looking for. The box that held the things he wanted was gray in colour, and it looked strong. And it was big. His mind salivated at the thoughts of what lay inside. Gingerly, as if afraid of something, he put his hand on the door, and pulled.

         The door came open, and a small smile spread across his rugged face.

         * * * * *

         She parked her car at her gate, feeling uneasy, unhappy really at everything around her. Especially herself. Oh, she thought, the party was definitely wonderful, and she would have stayed on longer if it hadn’t been for the unexpected meeting with her ex-husband. That, in itself, wouldn’t have been unbearable. No, what made it unbearable was his new wife that was with him. New wife…and only just two months after divorcing her. Oh, they clung to each other like newly-weds, not caring about the embarrassments of others. Not caring even about the jealousy that crashed over his ex-wife. How could she stay any longer, then?

         She stood at the door, and after staring at it for a few minutes, reached out at it with her keys. But as she stepped over the threshold, her mind went back to the image of his ex with his new wife. And why not, she wondered. He was, after all, good-looking, and young, and the pocket in which he stored his wealth definitely was big, almost bottomless.

         His new wife wasn’t too bad-looking herself.

         Some people seemed to have everything, she thought as she threw her bag on the couch. Why couldn’t I have been one of them?

         It was only then that she noticed the open windows, and a wave of fear washed over her. She knew she was alone, and if there was somebody else in the house that shouldn't be…

         She tip-toed to a drawer, and withdrew a small pistol. Checking if it was loaded, she moved silently around, looking out for the trespasser.

         She saw him. And she felt a new wave, which felt more a tsunami, of fear crash over her.

         He had seen her, too.

         After what seemed like an eternity of staring, the burglar jumped into motion, running directly at her.

         He was fast, too fast for her. By the time she had raised her gun, he was already past her, and was making straight for the open windows, a red plastic clutched in his hands, held tightly over his bony chest, like a mother protecting her child.

         She realized that he was half-naked, shirtless. Not knowing what to do, without aiming even, she fired her gun.

         It hit him squarely in the back. As he fell over with a gasp, the contents of his red plastic spilled on the ground.

         But what spilled down was not gold, or money, as she had thought. They were just some small pieces of bread, some eggs, and a small bottle of milk.

         She simply stood there, her gun still pointing at the fallen figure, feeling as though somebody was squeezing her insides with something. Her mind was numb, and she couldn’t think of anything.

         The figure on the floor struggled, and managed to turn himself over, facing her. But before she could look him in the eyes, she turned and fled into the kitchen, knowing well that she wouldn’t be able to stand what she saw in his face.

         But what she saw in the kitchen was something she couldn’t stand, too. There, just below the refrigerator, was a dirty, rugged piece of cloth which had, she had no doubt, been the dying man’s shirt. There was a small rose on it, and something had been written on it, too, just below it.

         She stepped closer, and saw two crude sentences scribbled with charcoal.

                   Thank you. God bless your kindness.

         She felt tears swell in her eyes, and she ran to the dying man. As she turned him over, she heard him whisper, “Why…is it that some people have…everything, while others…have nothi—” He gave a shudder, and then went completely still, his limp body sagging in her arms.

         Some people have everything, she thought. To her, it was her husband and his new wife that had it all, while she, she felt, had nothing. But to the poor man…she was the one who had everything, while he had nothing.

         Why indeed?