If I Can't Have It

It was finally mine.

Holding it again after all these years, I could see the shine was still there. The perfectly clean grooves showed it had been played only a handful of times during the last ninety years.

The black Paramount label was glossy, with no wear. Not even a spindle mark. It was beautiful.

This was the only known copy in existence.

The rich bastard was the real thief so this was not stealing. It's true he paid a princely sum, but had been taking advantage of me while I was in a miserable state.

He deserved this.

I deserved it.

It had always been mine.

Getting past the gate, through the security system, into the house, that was all nothing. What experience I lacked as a burglar was offset by careful preparation and a sheer desire for revenge.

Alas, eager hands are often the most clumsy. The gloves I wore to protect my prize could do nothing against the forces of gravity.

The shattering of the record was not nearly as noticeable as the sound of my sobbing.

He stood silently by my side. We stared at a beautiful work of art, destroyed, beyond any hope of repair.