Page 2 of Silent Night

If the family returns now and calls the cops, I decide it’s all worth it for this right here, right now: the tingling sensation as my body shifts from oneextreme temperature to another. Besides, could this be considered breaking-in when they never shut the door? It’s more like an invitation. Wholesome holiday cheer and all that.

I’ll only stay a moment. Warm up and go.

As I’m turning for the door, a scent of…of…damn, I can’t even describe the scent wafting from deeper in the house. It’s like a mix of warm, baked cookies, a fireplace, and what I suspect is literal happiness—not that I know what that smells like—and I find myself heading down the hallway toward it.

Everything in this place is shiny and screams wealth. The finishings are a rich wood in a natural deep colour, but kept glossy so every visitors’ gaze can’t help but pay it attention. The foyer is huge, opening up to a grand staircase, like the ones in movies. The hallways are wider than I’ve ever seen, with high, vaulted ceilings, making the second floor look down on the first, like a balcony.

Stupidly, I venture farther into the house, knowing with every step I’m losing my argument if the family returns. It went from “sorry, I was cold because I’m homeless and you left your door open” to “sorry, I’m wandering your house for reasons I’m not sure.”

I pass by an open doorway and peek inside, finding an office. The small space is lined with oak bookshelves, only one of them actually storing books. The books are leather-bound with black or gold script on the spines, giving little indication of the words inside, almost like they’re only for decoration. The other shelves hold small, ornamental items. Pointless junk.

The bulky desk is home to a metal lamp and a closed laptop, a leather executive chair tucked into it. The massive painting hanging behind the desk is what draws my attention.

It’s of a woman sitting on a chair, her smile wide as she faces forward. Her dark hair is done up, her pale dress unwrinkled. A man stands behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder in a claiming manner. He isn’t smiling, but his eyes shine with pride. Beside him is a girl, no older than the one I watched bolt down the road, like this portrait was commissioned recently.I find myself immediately captivated by her and the way she smirks at the camera, mischievous even in her parents’ presence. Dark curls are unruly around her face, and she slouches, the opposite from her parents’ rigid positions, like she’s saying with her body that she doesn’t want to be in the picture.

This must be the family who just ran off. It’s an interesting portrait. Nearly perfect, but with a lengthier study, it’s obvious there’s trouble in paradise. The parents and their stiff, formal positions indicate wanting not to be near one another, and the daughter obviously has no care about this family picture. Was probably forced into it.

I wonder what caused them to yell at one another outside. Clearly, the problems the portrait depicts carries into their realities.

As I turn away, my eye catches on something particularly shiny, encased in a glass case. A jewel-encrusted dagger propped on a stand. It must be worth a lot, to be in a case, stored in an office like this and away from visitors’ eyes. Even if it’s not “a lot” by these people’s standards, it probably is to mine.

I should leave, but what’s one more sin? I wonder how long it’ll take the man in the painting to notice it’s gone.

Before I debate too long, I open the case and slip my hand inside to?—

“What are you doing? Who are you?”

I look up to see the girl from the painting, her curls as unruly as the portrait, her arms crossed over her chest as she watches me watch her, piecing together exactly what I’m doing.

I rip my hand away, eyes sweeping the small space for escape. She’s blocking the only exit, which means remembering what my excuse was going to be if the family found me here.

“H-hey, sorry. I won’t hurt you.”

Her dark eyes scan me, landing on my thin clothing and the holes in my jeans. With her examination, she makes her own judgement, but unlike so many others, it doesn’t harshen her otherwise soft face. A sort of pitying smile graces her lips and she shrugs.

“I believe you.” She jerks her chin to the case. “Honestly, take it. Serves the asshole right. But they’re, like, minutes away. I turned through someone’s yard to lose them, but they’ll figure it out soon. So if you’re planning to steal it, you should probably take it and go now.”

She’s letting me go free? Even better: she’s letting me steal from her house?

It might be a trick but being homeless, starving, and freezing says otherwise, so I wrap my hand around the hilt of the dagger and shove it into an inner pocket of my jacket before moving toward her, my steps slow so she doesn’t freak out.

I stop in front of her, staring down, seeing now she truly can’t be that much younger than me. Older than a teenager but not by much. Slightly older than the painting on the wall, I now see. As I make my own assessment, she’s obviously coming up with one too, her gaze scanning my face. She’s the closest I’ve been to another person in a long time and it’s borderline unnerving to be studied so closely.

She jolts before stepping back. I want to know what’s in her head, but considering I’m a thief standing in her house and her parents are only minutes away, it’s not the time for conversation.

“Thank you,” I whisper as I pass her, and before I can understand what I’m doing, I lift a hand to her cheek, stroking calloused fingers along skin belonging to a girl meant for the lifestyle this house suggests. For once, I’m not annoyed by this fact, but enthralled. She’s so fucking soft, but before I grow addicted to what I can’t afford, I take off, down the hall and back outside into the cold before cutting around the back of her house and well out of sight, my stolen object safely in my pocket.

I never got the chance to thank that girl for fighting with her family that day. She didn’t only give me a few minutes of warmth, but she also introduced me to a new life. Pawn shops ask few questions and that dagger paid out a pretty penny. Enough to put up two months’ rent on a rundown apartment and managed to stay warm enough for the remainder of those coldest winter months before skipping town.

That was four years ago, and for the past three of them, I found myself in similar neighbourhoods every holiday season. It’s easy to slip inside when back doors are so often left unlocked or easily pickable. I’ve learned to choose a house and study it and its occupants for the weeks leading up to the holidays, learning their patterns, scoping what I can of their valuables to determine if it’ll be profitable.

The house I stand in front of is home to a middle-aged couple. All week, they’ve been unloading bags upon bags of presents after coming home from whichever white-collar jobs they have. They use Christmastime to fund their incessant need for more material items by spending all that they make at those very jobs.Idiots.Unlike so many other families in the area, they don’t even have the excuse of wanting to spoil their snot-nosed kids—which only causes children to grow up as greedy, selfish, and spoiled as the adults around them—because they have none that I’ve seen.

Either way, I’ve seen the labels on the bags they carry inside. Instead of stealing art or a valuable object, I could rob any one of the gifts beneath the tree and be set for a while.

In two nights, I’ll return.

In three, I’ll be gone from this town.

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