December 17, 2015

Short Story: Stolen

By: Pilena

His dead body lies limp in the wet street. His hollow eyes pierce through my blurring vision as I wobble backwards, regaining my balance with each step. Thunder shatters the sky, and as it does so, I feel the man twitch his fingers — as if he is beckoning me to join him in his gruesome death.

My mind never left that moment. Only during work was I able to relieve myself of what I had seen. People have always called me headstrong, yet now I don’t even deserve to be called the daughter of the Thompsons. Guilt swayed inside of me like a sea turned turbulent; I could have stopped them. I could have saved him. But, like a coward, I hid behind the shadows of the narrow alleyway, so easily becoming a silent witness to the harrowing crime set upon me.

“If you know what’s good for you, then keep your mouth shut. We don’t need another one of those snitches that only look out for themselves,” muttered the vague figure. “Now, give us the painting so we can get outta here.”

“W-what’s happening? Who are you guys?”

The manin the street whimpered as he was cornered by two others, shrinking back in utter fear. His eyes bounced back, still unaware of the situation. They were of an astonishing violet; they were of shades that were indescribable even with the human language. I felt his eyes wander towards an area dangerously near me, and I quickly faced away. The picture of his eyes stood imprinted in my mind — they were paralyzing.

“So you’re that kind of guy then? Let me tell you this; you won’t be able to stall, ’cause if you do, then you’re well aware of what’s gonna happen.” The person smirked as he made a hand motion, demonstrating a slice of the neck.

Violet Man searched frantically for any possible escape, glancing back and forth until, coincidentally, his eyes met mine.

” There she is – save me! Have mercy!” He screamed, flailing out his arms.

I pushed myself closer to the building and its shadows, and made no sign of existence for the sake of my life – my breaths were uneven and gasping, with my eyes shut tightly closed. But there was nothing to protect my ears as a splintering crack broke through the air.

My eyes snapped open. The helpless, violet-eyed man fell down on the concrete as a river of blood streamed from his body.

He was dead.

I took a promenade down the hill of memories as I walked back home after editing some newspaper articles. The latest was about a robbery of the national art museum. Something about it felt off…

My distracted mind didn’t even notice the pole blatantly standing in front of me.

“Watch out! Gosh, women these days… Always running into poles,” a guy grunted.

I looked back to see a middle-aged man with his blond hair tied back in a small ponytail – he was practically massacring the metal pole with his cart full of flyers. Ignoring what the man had said, I stepped closer to the taped paper.

A picture of Violet Man, alive, stared back.

It was about the museum theft from the article.

“This man had recently stolen the most prized possession in the National Art Museum; The Lost Child. Anyone who passes by this thief, please call the police.”

What’s happening … ?

My mind searched for answers, reviewing everything that happened that day.

“If you know what’s good for you, then keep your mouth shut. We don’t need another one of those snitches that only look out for themselves,” muttered the vague figure. “Now, give us the painting so we can get outta here.”

The painting… the lost painting…

Except, the man in the flyer had eyes of grey dullness.