The Thief and The Author

Part 1 — The Thief

“Have a good night.”

“You too,” I responded dryly from behind the counter. 

The bell on the door rang once as the customer I had just checked out left. A hooded figure entered simultaneously, slithering in with an almost secretive grace. My eyes followed him analytically, dragging across the store as he walked to the freezer in the back. For a couple of moments, he stood there, staring at the energy drinks. He soon moved on to the aisles, gliding with a beautiful magnificence, as if his feet weren’t even touching the ground. Slowly, he walked through each row as if he was trying to memorize the shelves, creating a perfect mental photograph of the entire store. 

I felt uneasy watching him, yet intrigued. Maybe it was because his face was completely obscured, or his unusual movements, but the man was mysterious. It was almost attractive, a sort of seductive aura surrounding him. He didn’t seem dangerous, so I turned my attention to a magazine.

“Hello.” My head jerked up, eyes wide open with surprise. His voice had startled me — I had just seen him at the back of the store, yet here he was, just inches from my face.  

His voice sounded calm and clean, though he looked quite the opposite. While his mouth resembled that of a smile, his eyes were green slits of malevolence. His face, diamond shaped and bony like a skeleton, bore the flushed redness of the cold night. And, as if revealing another skin beneath him, there sat beautiful patches of vitiligo.

“Oh,” I hesitated, still taken aback by his strange appearance. “Yes, sorry, what can I help you with?”

He leaned in, setting both hands on the counter before me. I leaned back in response, feeling my chin awkwardly approach my neck. I felt a cold breeze come between us, giving the atmosphere of the store a slight shift.

“Tell me,” he whispered, a sense of playfulness entering his voice. “Are you a strong person?” We made eye contact for a few seconds, a sense of fear creeping up through my chest.

“Am I strong?” I  responded, unable to push the fear back down. “I… I think so?” 

He nodded his head, eyes drilling into mine. “Mmm,” he said, his smile becoming creepier by the second.

“Listen,” I said shakily, “I don’t want any trouble, just-”

“Of course.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun, setting it down gently on the counter. 

I felt my hands grip the chair I was in, my body naturally clinging to any false sense of security I could find.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said slowly. “Just give me the money in the register. Then I’ll go.”

“No,” I said, attempting to seem sure of my words. Every bit of attraction to this man that I previously had was gone. 

“Give me the money,” he said again. 

I didn’t know what to do. Allowing this to happen, allowing myself to be taken advantage of — it just felt wrong. And yet I knew it wasn’t my fault; I should have had something to defend myself. A gun, a knife, anything. But I didn’t. 

“No,” I said firmly, but I felt tears coming. “Leave the store, now!”

His smile disappeared. “Give me the money.”

“No,” I said again, but my arms and legs were both shaking.

“Fine,” he said, gritting his teeth. He leaned close, right next to my ear. I froze, eyes glued to the other end of the store.

“Pick up the gun.”

“No!” I screamed, but I felt my arm moving.

“Yes,” he laughed, his warm breath sending shivers down my spine. “Bring it closer,” he commanded.

My arm was moving of its own accord. My fingers wrapped around the weapon, though I wanted nothing more than to throw it across the store.

“This isn’t my fault,” he told me. “You had a choice. You could have taken that gun and shot me with it, but no. You chose this.”

My hand continued moving, slowly approaching my head. “Please,” I begged. “Just leave!”

“Oh, but you let me in!” he said joyfully. “You chose to allow me here, and you’re choosing to let me stay. You’re choosing this!”

“No…” It was all I could manage to say. I was no longer in any sort of control, the gun moving closer to me, pointing itself towards my head.

“Do it!”

“No!”

“Do it!” 

“No!” I screamed, but it was too late.

The gun went off.

Part 2 — Characters

The man woke up with a memory of what had happened — the store, the thief, the shot — but bore no wounds. Rain poured down on his face as he lay flat on the pavement, inhaling and exhaling slowly. He stayed there for several moments, almost peacefully. All he could see were the trees, swaying in the wind like a dance, and the sky, full of shining, almost painted stars. And so he chose to rest, and he would not get up for many more moments. He had just died, after all.

But no longer. He stood to see a long and serpentine driveway, winding around a hill. There was a lawn also, short and mowed — even perfected. Light posts stuck out of the ground like nails, illuminating the driveway exactly even distances apart. And, of course, there was the house. The slanted, shingled roof glimmered in the moonlight, so intensely that he could almost see the stars’ reflections. It sat there simply, a heavenly glow emitting from one upstairs window. He caught sight of a silhouette — likely a teen, judging by his skinny build and leaning posture — who stood there for a moment, then vanished. 

Curiously, the man began to approach the house, nervously biting the inside of his cheek as he walked. The glow from that window; it attracted him like it would a moth. He knocked, shivering.

It burst open suddenly to reveal that same skinny silhouette, his now visible face staring in disbelief. Bags under the boy’s eyes indicated restlessness, and yet they were trained on him, calculating. 

You’re here. The statement did not leave the boy’s mouth. In fact, the boy did not open his mouth at all. The thought simply entered the man’s mind, as if he were reading it within a story. You’re actually here. 

“Wha — yes?” the man responded, confused.

Come in.

The boy led him inside the house, his sullen cheeks turning up into a smile. 

“Who are you? Where am I?!” A million questions ran through his head. “What happened to me? Did he shoot me? Him, at the store, I mean. Am I dead?”

My god, it’s working. It’s actually working. Take off your shoes. 

He found himself obeying the boy’s instructions without thought, simply doing without thinking at all. The boy led him away from the entrance, and they began to walk swiftly through the house. 

And such a strange house it was! Sleek, wooden chairs surrounded an oddly small television, volume blaring. A reporter seemed to be describing a crime scene in the city. “Sources say the thief is armed and dangerous, and — I’m just getting this — he’s running! Attention all civilians! Be on the lookout for a tall hooded figure, shoulder length black hair with white patches on his skin…” The man felt intrigued by the story, as if it would have been important to him in another life. The boy glanced at the tv and smiled again, but did not slow his walk. 

The floor creaked with each of their steps, as if it would break through and cause them to fall if they moved in the wrong direction. They started up a spiral staircase in the middle of the home, a cool breeze flowing over them as they ascended. 

At the top, the boy dragged him to a door, that same warm light glowing through the frame. A tingling sensation appeared on the man’s leg for a moment, both wet and rough at the same time. He looked down to see a large python slithering between his legs, flicking her tongue around his ankle as she passed through. His heart skipped a beat as he opened his mouth to yelp, but then —

Don’t mind her. The boy flew through the door into an opaque, yellow room with simply a desk inside.

“How can I not?!” he asked. 

She won’t bite now. The boy rummaged through the drawers, trashing papers and seemingly important documents.

“I’m almost certain you don’t know that.” She hissed quietly and retreated to a dark corner of the room.

I do. I think. I could be sure, if only I could… Finally, a satisfied expression appeared on his face. He was holding up just a couple damaged papers. Aha.

“How could you possibly be sure of that!?” he asked. The boy ignored his question, simply staring at the writing on the pages in front of him.

This is your story. 

“What?!” he said. “Listen, if I can’t get some answers soon, I’m going to—”

You’re going to what? Leave? Right. 

Suddenly, a loud noise cut into his ears. He whirled his head around to see the snake, a large dead rat in her jaws. He found himself gnawing on the inside of his cheek again, soon tasting blood. The boy did not react, save for a quick glance to the corner with only his eyes.

Listen. You’re not going to like what I have to tell you. But it is extremely important to the plot that you know this. Are you prepared?

“I —” he didn’t know what to say. What could this child — Ha! — possibly know that would be so devastating? He knew, however, he wanted to find out, so —

Good. Finally. 

How had the boy known what he was thinking? 

I wrote you. The boy held up the papers, staring idly at him. This is your story. 

“What?”

You heard me. And I know you understand me. But I also know you do not believe me. I shall clarify, for your sake — The boy looked away from him, to you — Not for him, for your sake. 

I wrote him. I wrote of his life, his family, his childhood, his job. I wrote of that night at the store, and the thief who got him shot. I wrote of his death and his coming here, and I wrote what you are reading now. But this is not about me. This is about him. And it would not be one of my stories without the themes based on my own naive philosophical thoughts being loosely hidden behind poorly defined ‘characters’ and a non-existent ‘plot.’ Anyways. Back to him. He understands enough. He does not know of you, but he understands enough.

“You wrote me?” asked the man.

I did.

“Do you not know, then, what I am going to say?”

Indeed.

“Then why speak with me?”

Amusement mostly. An outlet for myself. Thought provoking, as well, isn’t it?

The man agreed, he thought. The snake had abandoned her prey by this point, curled up and staring at him and the boy, waiting.

“Alright,” he said, concentrating hard on the floor as he thought. “So if you wrote me…”

Yes?

“Do I really have control over what it is that I am doing?”

Who knows, really. I created you. I created your decisions, your past, your future. Just because I created you, though, doesn’t mean you’re not still you.”

“Then how can I possibly be held accountable for what it is that ‘I’ do, if you are the one making it happen?”

Ah, but is it not still I that holds you accountable? Is it not I who creates you to live, to die, to suffer?

“To suffer?”

           The boy smiled, an amused gleam entering his eyes. He was right, and yet it felt wrong. How could an owner be so cruel, so sadistic? How could one possibly create just for the sake of pain? He looked to the boy now with hating, begging eyes.

Oh of course, more than anything else!

The snake began to move then, creeping close to him.

“You’re evil,” he spat. “You have me trapped, forced to exist in this experiment of yours, forced to play the role of an observer and have no ability to do otherwise. I could not opt out, not if it was what I most desired. That is, of course, ignoring the fact that you control what it is I desire!”

The boy laughed disdainfully. I am your creator. I am your life, your everything! Without me you wouldn’t be happy, you wouldn’t be at all! You should be thanking me! For life, for existence!

To hell with thanking him, he thought.

“What happens now? Are you going to send me back? Will I ever get to see my family again? Are they even real?” he asked.

The boy sighed, and looked away for a moment. Ah, is anything real? Are you? Am I?

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind that he might not actually exist. Obviously he was from some other plane of existence, even if it was created by some boy, but he still felt real. 

“Of course I’m real.”

The snake’s eyes almost seemed to glow green, their slits sharp and metallic. 

Of course. And your life as well?

“Yes. I was just at a store, working, and there was man; he had a gun, I think —”

Then tell me, what is your name?

He did not respond. They stood in silence for minutes, the boy simply staring into his eyes. He desperately wanted to avert them, and yet he could not. He felt the snake slithering around his legs again, intertwining herself in his entire essence and being.

“Pure evil,” spat the man.

The boy suddenly dropped his smile into a glare. You have no idea what it’s like. A hint of pain had entered the boy's voice. The man simply stared.

You have no idea what it’s like. You have no idea what it’s like to sit for hours, alone, listening to the screams of your past haunt you, the cries of the present even louder. You don’t know what it’s like to have to really live. Because you weren’t made for that. You were created to be happy, to be okay. And you took it for granted. So I made you suffer; I made you suffer like me. 

The boy looked down, and the snake began to move again. She hissed and spat, venom burning into the man’s skin. The three of them sat there for minutes, silent. The snake coiled herself up the man’s body then, fastening his arms to his waist, controlling him.

“What happens when the story ends?”

The boy’s voice returned to its natural state — all telling, never showing. 

Did I tell you it was going to end? 

As the snake hissed, spitting into his eyes, the man spoke. “Fine. Then what happens next?”

Ah, who knows. I haven’t gotten there yet.

And then, finally, the snake began to tighten her grip on the man. As her body squeezed into him, he heard cracks in his ribs —  and he stood there. He felt his own arms break as the arms of death embraced him — and he stood there. He could not make an attempt at escape if he wanted to; the power she had was too suffocating. 

And so he did not. He stood there. 

And as death tightened its own grip on the man, the boy began to write again.