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The Paper Thief

He takes everything of value.

By Rachel McKennaPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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I crouched at the edge of the property. In front of me was a vast swath of land that led up to a large traditional brick manor. Its peaks disappearing into the grey clouded sky. I thought of the irony of the pathetic fallacy before me. My clothes felt damp on my skin from the drizzle of rain around me. I sat in silence, as I waited.

I knew the schedules of who I was waiting for. Like clockwork. There was a one-hour window between 6 and 7 where the house would be empty, save for an old man who couldn’t walk. I inhaled the dewy air as I looked down at my watch. I never took my phone on trips like this, afraid that my nightly thefts could be traced back to me. Usually, I wasn’t too creative. I would pick locks into back doors, or garages. I would slip in and grab anything I could pawn off. I would leave, as swiftly as I arrived, escaping with some small tools, appliances, or if I was lucky a bike; both a getaway vehicle, and something I could use to earn some cash.

Tonight, was different. Tonight, I was wandering into a more familiar terrain. As my watch clicked to 6, a middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform made her way out of the home, and ducked into her car, before speeding off. Nights like this were perfect. People rarely stop to look around in the middle of a storm. I waited a few moments. I listened until I could no longer hear the roll of tires on the wet pavement, and then I made my move. Silently, I began my walk across the muddy lawn under the opaque cover of darkness.

I wasn’t always like this, some lowlife thief. Barely a year ago, I was a welcome member of this home, but my demons slowly came to light. Rare books disappeared, leaving gaps on their shelves. Pieces of silverware were picked away, until there was barely a full set left in place, and the shadow of loan sharks made their way to our front door. My grandfather paid them off countless times, but sometimes, enough is enough, and one day, he turned me away. So, I became a stranger. As I turned the knob to the door, I now had the uncomfortable feeling of being an intruder, in my own home.

The house was silent, save for the few muffled creaks of my own footsteps. I made my way up the main staircase with only one room in mind, my grandfather’s study. I had stripped that house of every object of value that could fit into my pocket. All that was left was my grandfather’s collection of rare books, which I hadn’t managed to clear out. Not for a lack of trying.

I timidly passed my own childhood bedroom. My face reddened with hot shame. I couldn’t bring myself to look inside, and to see the innocent blue walls, and starlight ceiling. Finally, I found the study. I knew that no one would be inside. My younger brother was away at college, and my grandfather was too sick to leave his own room. I felt a little disgusted with myself at the thought.

I cracked the door open and let myself inside. My eyes traced the skeletal remains of the once complete library. Gaps left from my thefts of the Odyssey, and Great Expectations. I began to scan the spines, but not many notable titles were left. I started to pull some out, so I could begin to read their covers and guess their values. I stopped when I find a small dark book that piqued my interest. I could feel its soft leather, but I took it to the light of the window to better examine it.

The windows rattled as I traced my fingers across the black leather spine. Single pane windows, a relic from the last century boomed with every small flurry of wind. I began to peel back the pages of the small black notebook. They weren’t as yellowed as one would expect, with lines of onyx ink illustrating each sheet. It took me a moment to begin to decipher the text. A unique calligraphy, that I recognize as my grandfathers. The sharp lines, and curves falling into each other.

Suddenly, I was startled by a soft nudge on my wrist. Shaking me out of my concentration as I looked to see Bixie, my grandfather’s old cat, rubbing her gray head into my hand. As I recomposed myself, I gave her a soft scratch on her forehead, then flipped through the pages of the notebook.

To my surprise, a small, folded wisp of paper slipped out. I watched as it fluttered to the ground. Bixie darts for it, trying to turn this crinkled page into her new prey. I could hear her paws clatter as the paper crumpled. I carefully scooped Bixie into my arms and rescued the page. She seemed irritated, but complacent to the end of her game, as she leaned her weight into the crook of my arm. She rumbled a low hiss of crossness, but I ignored her as I sat in the aged leather armchair and opened the folded piece of paper.

For a moment, I was taken by surprise. I would have expected something like this to have been kept safely with a lawyer. The script is once again muddied by the curving black ink loops of my grandfather’s hand, but now there are cleanly typed words as well. In crisp, large, black letters, across the top of the page were the words “Last Will and Testament.” The font was the garish Old English I remembered seeing on my own high school diploma.

I slowly skimmed the page as my eyes jumped from Executor, to Guardian, until they finally landed on Bequests. My heart started to palpate as my excitement grew. On the page, in my grandfather’s own script were the words “I will, give, and bequeath unto …

…James Marshall my youngest grandchild, my estate.”

I frowned in disappointment. James was my youngest brother, and clearly, I was written out of the will. I almost stopped reading, when I saw my own name jump out of the page. I paused; the scribble of William pulled at my own nostalgia. It reminded me of birthday cards from my grandfather. I would often keep them in my room, never throwing them away. I felt a pang of guilt as I sat uninvited in his home. I returned to finish reading the page, “I will, give, and bequeath unto William Marshall, my oldest grandchild $20,000.” I let out an exhale of relief.

I wasn’t sure if it was the money, or just the feeling of being acknowledged by my grandfather for the first time in a year that made me feel better. I knew James must be inheriting in the realm of millions, but where my life was at that moment, $20, 000 may as well be equivalent. I had momentary dollar signs in my eyes as I thought of how this could fix everything. I could pay back everyone that I owed, finally stop couch surfing, get a new place. No! Even better, I could bet it on the next game, and double my winnings, who needs 20k when you could have 40 my brain wondered greedily.

My joy was short lived though, as the sound of medical equipment echoed through the halls. Whether real or a hallucination they grew louder, like the irritating tick of a clock. I looked at Bixie, the cat who I thought was old ten years ago. Skinny, with grey matted fur. Like the cat, I was disappointed to think of how long my own grandfather may live. It could be years before I saw the money, decades even. Him ticking away, kept alive by the hum of machines.I glowered. Bixie perched on the desk, her white, cloudy eyes staring at me with a look of irritation. I aped her as I hunched into the chair. “Twenty-thousand dollars” I whispered to myself, money that would probably take an eternity for me to see. “How long was the old man going to live?” I wondered.

As I mulled in the armchair, I slowly felt a wave of disgust overcome me. “Is this how low I have sunk?” I thought to myself. “Wishing the death of my own grandfather for some money?” I hunched forward and dropped my head into my hands. “What have I become?” I whispered, as I reveled in self-loathing.

Once again, I could hear the machines in my grandfather’s room. I thought of the man who raised me, now sickly, and thin. I thought of how I could have been visiting him, instead of robbing him tonight. I could have taken the chance to see him again. The sound grew louder as I picked myself up. I slipped the will back into the black notebook and placed it on the desk. I looked down at Bixie and pulled her into my arms. She didn’t like being held, so she twisted and grumbled, but I cradled her closer, trying to make up for my time spent away.

I made my way into the hall. With each step, the sound of the machines boomed louder in my ears, until I reached his door. I stood there for what felt like an eternity. What could I say to an old man who I had disappointed time and time again? Someone I had stolen from? Someone who considering my addiction, I wouldn’t trust myself not to steal from again. I let out an exhale, and looked down at Bixie in my arms, she looked up at me with her big eyes, and let out a small defiant hiss. I chuckled at the cat, and with an inhale of bravery, I let myself in.

Inside the room, it was quieter than I had thought. There was a low hum, nothing like the loud sounds I imagined in my head. To my surprise, there was a young sandy haired boy sitting at the edge of my grandfather’s bed. As I stepped forward, he looked up. “James,” I whispered. The last time I saw him, he practically screamed me out of the house, so disgusted by what his older brother had become. Instead, his eyes were purpled with fatigue, and his mouth hung in sadness. “James, are you okay?” I asked as I walked closer. Drained, he didn’t feign to respond, but instead nodded his head towards the hospital bed.

Before I even looked at my grandfather, I knew. I made my way towards them. I held on tighter to Bixie, unable to bring my eyes to my grandfather’s face. Instead, I stood wordlessly in that room with James, nothing but the hum of the medical machines to break our silence. I am not sure how long I stood there for. The other nurse never showed up for her shift. Already called off when our grandfather had died hours earlier.

I wondered if my brother wanted me here. I still had an addiction that I couldn’t shake. When it finally felt like I had overstayed my welcome, I let Bixie down and made my way out. As I crossed through the corridor, I once again stopped at a room, but this time it wasn’t my grandfather’s study. I opened the door to my childhood bedroom and was awash with the light blue pastel. I made my way to a shelf, and pulled down a small, folded piece of paper. A card. I slowly opened it, and inside I read “Happy Birthday Will, love Grandpa,” in his own black ink script. I made my way down the stairs, and out the front door, back into the darkness of the night. My hand in my pocket, clutching the card. It was the last thing I ever took from that house.

grandparents
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