Thief

I lived in the bazaar. Well, not exactly IN the bazaar but behind its stalls, in a corner, in a shack. What woke me up every morning was the bustling noise of the crowd that gathered on every stall. I wake up to the noises of kids running around with coins tucked in their pockets, looking for the first opportunity they get to spend it on whatever stupid stuff they lay their eyes on. I wake up to the smell of fresh soup, chicken, fish, fruits and all kinds of cookies and baked goods. But what my mouth gets for breakfast is the same old, crunchy bread the bakers throw out at the end of every day. People are strange, they only realize the value of things when they loose it or when they've never had it. It's strange how easy it is for them to take it all for granted.

Despite my little age -seven- and my even littler body, I always felt like I was old. The only reminder of the fact that I'm not that old is the fact that I can sneak easily into tight spaces. My little bony hands are too small to be noticed, and I'm extremely light on my feat, which are barely skin and bones-- not that heavy. So when I steal, no one sees me.

I didn't think I was selfish for stealing, I thought the rich were. I never could have imagined myself passing a seven year old, in a shack, with barely any clothes on, and a baby he's trying to take care of and not help out. Why wouldn't I? Of course I'd help. After all, I'd have so much money, I'd be wearing those fancy clothes I see people wear when carriages pass by, I'd be munching on a big muffin I bought and still have some extra cash in my neat leather wallet to spare a poor boy and a baby. "You are too kind for this world," my mother once told me. I closed my eyes and try to remember her warm voice. The aroma of freshly baked bread and corn and soup flooding my nostrils again from the stalls in front of me. I opened my eyes when the baby cried, wishing that I, too, could whine and cry like that whenever I'm hungry. The smell of all the food made our stomaches rumble. I had to get to work.

I steadied the baby and put her back to sleep before quickly getting up and heading into the bazaar, I didn't have much time until she would wake up again with hunger. Blending with the crowd, my eyes darted around for a slim chance of a dozing seller with the least amount of shoppers around. It's a pretty slim chance, but it was there nonetheless; that same little stall that sold bread. It's gotten easy for me to steal from this particular one lately. Since a new baker stall opened right next to it with cheaper offers, it hasn't been getting much sales lately. I kept slowly towards it like usual, waiting until the seller that stood behind the stall yawned, or coughed, or did anything that caught him off guard and snatched the closest piece of bread from the counter and ran and ran and ran. Sometimes, when I'm fast enough, I like to let the seller know that he'd been robbed. But this was not a good time. Had I known what I was getting myself into when I laughed loudly as I ran, alerting the seller and agitate him, I would have never left my shack.

"Stealer!! grab him!!!" I heard yelling from behind, but I was too far for anyone to catch me---- I tripped on a rock and fell face first on the dirt.

I expected everything. I braced for kicks, punches, beatings, scoldings and all kinds of humiliation. I clutched the bread closer to my chest as I heard the crowd gather around me in commotion. The dirt stung every cut on my face and burned my eyes, and my head kept spinning around. The thumps of my heartbeat got louder and louder as steps got closer to me. Then I heard whispers. The kind of whispers people make when someone does something weird or unexpected. I looked up with my filthy face to see a bony hand stretching out towards me. I looked up to see the face of the seller I stole from looking at me. I blushed with embarrassment, then paused with surprise. "You are too kind for this world.." my mother had once told me, I thought she said that because everyone else was cruel and without mercy. But at that moment, as I took the man's hand and returned his bread, I remembered what I forgot from her words; "..many of us are, but we were just simply never given the chance."

I have long lost faith in people being kind to me, I no longer expected kindness from anybody ever since my mother had died. I never expected any kindness from the bread seller simply because the rich people that passed by my shack everyday never spared a penny. But as I sat the next day alongside him behind the stall as his helper in return for food for me and my sister, I never spared the chance to look for kindness in every soul.