Stealing - a short story based on a poem by Carol Ann Duffy..

Short Story..

Slouching against the mottled brick wall, I look out at the scene in front of me; neatly trimmed gardens and the spotless exteriors of the houses. A moving snapshot of a life that was just out of my reach. I must admit I felt really out of place here, like a chess piece on a checkers board.

This is what I do usually; hang around on street corners, moping. Not the best filler of my time, I know, but I have so much free time, that free time is now meaningless.

I glance up, breaking out of my reverie as I hear loud joyous laughter echoing through the streets. I flinch. It had been quiet for a while, and the sudden noise broke through the silence like shattered glass, I could almost feel the tiny fragments cutting through my skin.

A young kid suddenly races round the corner as I'm watching, a great wide smile plastered on his face as he skids on the icy pavement. He carries on running until he is almost level with me and I try, unsuccessfully, to melt into the wall.

And then he notices me. His eyes, shining happily with exultation, widen as he looks over my tall scruffy frame. I notice something of me in him; when I was a kid I loved to run around, completely carefree. The kid blinks innocently; his breath coming out raggedly as I stare him down, knowing it was probably making him nervous, but really not caring.

We stand like this for a minute or so, and just as he opens his mouth to say something, a harassed looking adult with a pushchair hurries round the corner. The kids eyebrows pull up nervously and he shuffles his feet, and I hold back a snicker; he'd obviously run off. The woman - most likely his mother walks level to us and puts her hand on the little guys shoulder, and then she eyes me angrily.

Her face was full of concern for her son, worry evident in her eyes. Huh, I think, wonder what that's like. I raise my eyebrows, and then the boy suddenly speaks up.

"I just ran over, he was standing there." he blurts out, looking up at his mum defiantly.

She sighs and casts one more disgusted glance in my direction then bustles him off, giving him a scolding as they walk, and wheeling the pushchair along at the same time. I frown slightly, wondering why the kid stood up for me, and then I see them go inside one of the picture perfect houses. Nice life for some.

A few people were milling around, most of them with smiles on their faces; probably because of the snowy weather. I grimace, quickly marching down the road, rubbing my frozen hands together in an attempt to warm them up. I still loved this weather, just as I had then I was a kid, but it meant that more people would be out. And I did not want to be noticed. Sighing, I decide to go home, so I take the familiar route down the backstreets to avoid the people that were braving the weather.

I'd only taken to this chameleon like tendency recently. I didn't like being noticed and, usually, people were too busy to notice. I liked my freedom anyway.

I glance up, catching the sound of talk and laughter close by. There was a group of guys, about my age, walking along the pavement opposite me. And I stop. They don't notice me, why would they? They were messing around, two of them pretending to wrestle each other, and nearly slipping on the ice. I grin, watching the guy with shaggy brown hair shoving the other guy over, chuckling slightly and shoving my hands in my pockets. Then a strange empty feeling enters my chest, a dull ache. I didn't have any friends, I had done, but when I'd moved house that had all changed.

I carry on walking, turning the corner as I notice the talking had stopped, and I feel their stares burning into my back.

I quickly shove my key into the door and open it, creeping inside and shutting the door against the cold. It was a small house; one lounge, a tiny bathroom, a small kitchen and two bedrooms. But it was ok: it was, after all, just a house for me, myself and I. I jog up the stairs towards my bedroom, shutting the door behind me as I enter, and leaning back against the door.

I survey the space quickly, looking at all the items scattered around the room, a smug smile creeping onto my face.

There was the guitar, propped up against the wall, with two strings broken and flying out at odd angles; house number thirty seven. A large camera, the professional type, the lens covered in fingerprints from when I had tried to test it out; house number fifteen. A play station game, something to do with racing, that I'd obtained even though I didn't have anything to play it on; house number twenty two. There was a large khaki coloured jacket, three sizes too big for me; house number thirty.

I have loads more things dotted around my room that I have taken, along with the ones I listed, from the posh houses a few streets away. The smile sinks off my face as I count off the houses on my fingers; I still wasn't satisfied. I get bored easy, not having much to do to occupy my time. I didn't need these things, they were useless to me, but I felt like I needed them anyway. The people in the perfect houses would now realise a small part of the truth; life isn't always fair.

Midnight. My breath rising up in the air like smoke. Heart racing. Hands frozen; I’d decided not to wear the gloves.

I walk down the empty street, the lights from the street lamps creating a glistening winter wonderland: urban style. I’d sat around for a bit, thinking, when I remembered seeing something in front of one of the picture perfect houses.

A snowman.

He looked magnificent; a tall, white mute beneath a winter moon. I wanted him, a mate with a slice of ice as cold as the slice of ice within my own brain. It was in the front garden of one of the picture perfect houses, the exact same one that the boy, and his mum with the pushchair, walked into earlier. I started with the head.

It took a while, an hour at most. This was strange, even for me. Snowmen; think, happy times, laughing kids building them with their parents. Spending quite a bit of time at it too.

Now, I look at it. It didn’t look the same. Knowing it was me who built this, assembled it, with not even the slightest bit of happiness. The only happiness in me was the realization that the kids would cry in the morning.

Then I remember the little guy, the one who stuck up for me. Who seemed a bit like me, younger version. And he was probably the same age as my sister.

In a burst of anger I run up too it, kicking at the snow body in frustration.

And then here I was, along amongst lumps of snow, sick of the world. 

I stood up, and feeling humiliated, I took another way home at time, instead of my familiar route. The streets were bare, no souls present. I think to myself, “Who am I”, with desperation. My hands were frozen both with coldness and fear of embarrassment.

I approached my house. And clambered through the gate, I see at bright pink object stuck to my door. I walk close. It was a thin piece of crisp paper. I read it out loud, “Notice to Quit”.