Page 1 of Silent Night

ONE

SAINT

Greed.

The dictionary defines the term as having an intense desire for something, often referring to wealth, power, or food.

No one ever admits this, since it’d be seen as a fault and they don’t dare have any of those, but greed is the driving force behind people’s actions. No one does shit for free anymore. It’s how the rich stay rich and the poor stay poor. Everyone lives in their lanes, either striving for better or striving to continue as they are.

Once they’re inside their designated lane, it’s their desire for more that encourages them forward. In that, the rich showcase their wealth, gaining others’ envy, and in turn, igniting their greed. When enticed to reach for more, behaviours get twisted, and they become shadows darkening humanity.

There’s one time a year when people’s greediness emerges stronger than ever. A time of year that they seem to relish in the feeling. When whiny kids beg for more toys, stores mark-up basically everything in stock, technology companies release the most updated cell phones, game consoles, and the like right in time to be snatched up, and organizationsconveniently pop-up requesting money for others in these “difficult times.”

One time of year thatcelebratesthese behaviours.

Christmas.

FuckingChristmas.

I’ve always despised the holiday.

Perhaps it has something to do with it being the unfortunate day I was born, and every one of my twenty-six years on this planet, not one of them holds a positive memory. Adding to the fact that it was the very day that fifteen-year-old me got kicked out of the foster home I was in. Ironic that the day meant for celebrating with family was when I lost my chance at one.

And then there’s the pain that comes with this stupid holiday. I’m on the outside, walking the streets as a shadow of society, forced to witness people get what they desire while my hopes and dreams have been long ground to dust, blown into the falling snow so re-sparking them would be impossible. No one pays attention to the ghost wandering around, even within the most affluent neighbourhoods, because they’re all too selfish and too busy with their own lives to look twice. Too focused on opening their presents, so their gazes pass right over me.

It's always been like that, though. Once, it bothered me, but as I grew up, I realized how many benefits there were to being invisible. How easy it is to slip in and out of people’s lives when they barely know you’re there to begin with.

Not only their lives, but their homes too. After all, when I have nothing and they have everything, it’s only fair they share.

It’s why, a few days before Christmas, I’m walking through a neighbourhood filled with large houses—mini mansions essentially—with lawns blanketed with soft snow, strung with every holiday decoration one could stick on a property, and the expensive, luxury cars that are hidden within the multi-car garages. These are homes of wealthy people who leave every day for their equally-elaborate careers. Lawyers, doctors,businessmen, and such. Jobs that allow one to live like a king, unlike me, who picks up odd, menial jobs in each town I pass through.

These are the places where greed really shines as bright as the flashy, coloured bulbs attached to their roofs. When they already have all that money and everything a person could possibly want, yet for the holidays, they waste it onmorefancy cars, the latest tech to replace the devices they got only the year before, and jewelry so grand it should be in a museum.

From the outside, they’re also the homes that seem to have the most perfect Christmases, as I’ve witnessed over my years of doing this. The ones where they sing around a piano, drink hot chocolate, and lay out cookies for the imaginary creep who sneaks into their homes. The places where they sit around the tree on Christmas morning in pyjamas that cost more than most average-income families’ entire wardrobe.

Greed is an interesting concept. Personally, I don’t consider myself greedy when I rob them of their precious items. Especially considering, the next morning, they’ll wake up to new ones, so they’ll never miss the expensive painting on the wall. Or that vase on the random table in that random sitting room no one actually uses, but they insist on paying housekeepers to maintain. They don’t need those items when they have much better uses.

Like funding my next few months of life.

I stop in front of the particular house I’ve chosen for this year; scoped out about a month ago, and spent the past few weeks studying, learning the ins and outs. The exterior walls are a light blue, and something about the shape of it, the decorations on the front lawn, it reminds me of the first house I ever stole from, four years ago.

That time was an accident, mixed with opportunity.

It soon became a lifestyle.

As I tread down the sidewalk with nothing better to do than let myself freeze in my thin, ripped jeans and even thinner jacket that I stole from someone’s shopping cart earlier in the month, I remind myself I’m alive, and it’s better than the fate of other people.

I don’t know how or why I ended up in this neighbourhood of all places, but fuck, if anyone saw me they’d probably think I was out to rob them. The two or three storey houses scream wealth; a life I’ll never experience. Long paved driveways, large bay windows displaying decorated trees, yards that are littered in holiday shit. These are the kinds of places that go all out for Halloween, and cover their property in flags for Canada Day, and even decorate for St. Patrick’s Day. The places that can afford wasting their money on unimportant shit.

Nearby yelling draws my attention to a large blue house trimmed with bright, multi-coloured lights. There’s a blown-up snowman on the front lawn, smiling and jolly and shit, but the noises coming from the family as they spill out onto the street are anything but joyful.

I stop, watching as a teenage girl screams at her parents. From the distance, she looks a bit younger than me, but I’d bet anything on this planet that she hasn’t seen or done half the shit I have, especially as she’s screeching at her family for what I assume is a stupid reason. Probably didn’t buy her a freaking tiara in the right shade of gold or something else ridiculous. She runs down the road despite the fact it’s negative twenty and she’s wearing nothing thicker than a cardigan. Her parents trail after her, not bothering to lock their door.

I don’t know what compels me, but once the family is out of view, I walk across the street, hoping all their neighbours are too busy in their own holiday cheer to bother paying the homeless guy entering this house any attention.

This is probably the worst idea I’ve ever had, but it’s as if I’m watching myself from the outside, and I can’t stop my feet from moving.

I slowly enter, passing the beige front door, half of which is a smoked glass window. Despite it being open and the icy outdoors spilling into the heated house, passing the doorway is like entering a shield, and penetrating it brings a wall of warmth that immediately begins thawing my body.

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