It was six minutes after midnight, the inactive neighborhood dog rested beside me in the middle of Mrs. Jones’ back garden. The flea-ridden canine let its falsifying imagination run free. Whereas I, the young man with his whole life ahead of him, was burdened with the mentality of a being who is beside oneself. Hour after hour, I would partake in a mental dispute over my actions of the previous day. “Maybe, what I did was for the good, after all, she is the condemned one of the neighborhood.”
“Oh, what are you saying jack? You’re not like that. What you have done is terrible.” After a while of this bickering, I decided to depart from the weathered, old garden of Mrs. Jones, leaving the dog at peace.
The neighborhood streets were muted by the piercing voice of the police sirens, pursuing its target through the large city bordered by its suburban villages. The old, derelict houses that ordered beside the street were silent. No movement or noise passed my ears except from the industrial city tone. These conditions were idyllic for the occupation of my mind. I trudged on until I reached my home. I looked up and saw the worn brickwork of the small, tired, residence. As I opened the door into my abode, the murmuring of human activity broke the tranquility. I discretely slipped into the kitchen. I silently scanned the kitchen for any sort of defense and saw the butcher’s knife placed on the knife rack in the corner of the worktop next to the microwave. I equipped myself and headed towards the staircase. Adrenalin cascaded through my body as a crept, step-by-step, up the stairs. I reached the peak of the stairs and steadily approached the door of my bedroom. I steadied myself, had one last deep breath and slammed the door open before my conscience revaluated the situations’ consequences. I entered the scene with a loud, threatening growl but I was too late. The wardrobes and draws were raided, window open with the curtains flowing with the bitter breeze, my room, like my life, has been turned upside down.
I analyzed the damage done to my living quarters. Every glance stabbed at me, leaving me on the floor. As I brought myself back to my feet, I grabbed my phone and called the police. As I was waiting to be connected, I looked at the cracked image of my mother on the dark red carpet. At this point I could sense her breath running down the spine of her only young. I listened to her soothing voice for what seemed to last for hours, but really for seconds. Snap, back to this nightmare. I looked to where the image one stood and saw that the bracelet that she had gave me in her last moments had gone.
I went back down the stairs in a complete contrasting manner to going up moments earlier and went out the front door, leaving it ajar. I stood at the gate of my house and looked around to see if there was any sign of the thief. Surprisingly calmly, I walked in the direction of the thief and saw a wooden farm gate slightly open with footprints…