The Thief that I See

His quivering hands hover over the chiseled recollections. A thousand of them lay at his command, ready for the taking. They flash red, crimson, all the deep, dark colors of the world. Eyes glimmering, he watches the figures move about in the little ruby octagons.

He reaches out. Ripples emanate from his movement, spiraling round and round his fingers. Before the victim knows what's happened, he has stolen the moment from them, and it is forever lost. Instead of leaving it, he takes it for himself, happily breathing in all the things that he likes the feel of: joy, glee, satisfaction.

They make his eyes water. His windpipes tighten and his throat burns from tears. He misses those feelings, truthfully. All he wants is to have them back.

His arms move, grasping as many of the watery objects as he can handle, inhaling the tens of memories all at once. He steals them from their rightful owners and locks them into his own heart, crying of desperation and of fear. In his world of darkness, these stolen artifacts are the only thing that keep him alive. A child who lives without anything but thievery cannot shy away from such opportunity.