From a Window Sill

He was born into the world of crime, and he was perfectly fine with it.

At least, until now.

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The moon was hanging low in the cool navy sky, and the moist stone paved roads of the sleeping town was silent, with the occasional drip, drip, dripping of water trickling down the steep rooftops high above.

His footsteps were precise, accurately calculated from years of sneaking around, to the point they were as silent as the footsteps of mice. He hurried down the alley way, glancing around suspiciously. He knew better than to let his guard down, for only a mere second of distraction could mean the difference between a night of riches well spent and a cold eternity behind bars. 

Soon, he had reached his destination, the house of the tailor's family. The small, fogged windows emitted a warm, soft, yellow light, and he jumped up, hooking his fingers on the window sill, to wipe some condensation off and peer in. What he saw made him catch his breath.

Inside, in front of a blazing fireplace, was the tailor and his family. The old tailor was chuckling joyously with his elegant wife, while the younger of the two daughters was giggling, spread out on the floor like a butterfly. The elder sister was smiling to herself, while carefully working on some embroidery. A silk handkerchief of sorts. 

Absentmindedly, he thought, "A piece of silk like that would sell well."

He spent the another lingering moment hanging in front of the window, watching the love-filled sight fill his mind with curiosity. How did it feel, to be in a family? How did it feel to be in front of a fireplace like that? 

He was slapped out of his revelry at a stray bird's croak off in the distance. Hopping back onto the stone path, he thought, "I'll steal from them tomorrow."

And, with that thought in mind, he slunk back down the path.

After all, it was too dangerous to steal from a whole family while they were all wide awake.

He would steal from them tomorrow, he promised himself.

But that promise never got fulfilled.

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It was now months since that fateful one-sided encounter, and he still found himself peering in through that small foggy window each night, without ever taking anything from that house. He was beginning to believe he was losing his touch. (But that just didn't make any sense, because he could still steal from the other houses, no problem. So why was this any different?) Night after night, he would hop up, wipe the window with his tattered, frayed sleeve, and just watch the tailor's family go about their lives, without ever realizing he was there.

It made him begin to wonder why, (even though he knew the answer). Why did this one house make all the difference in his own survival? Crime was his air, stealing was his blood. Why couldn't he just take the riches and go?

But, at the end of each night, he still found himself stalking away in the shadows, thinking to himself, "I can go one more night without bread. I can go one more night without a bed. I'll just take the silks and stuff tomorrow."

And, of course, during the daytime, while he was hiding from the many swarms of guards that marched around town, he would stare up at the clouds and the bright blue sky (if he could see it, for desperate times call for desperate measures), and his thoughts would wander.

What would it be like to have a mother with soft, silky hair, and an even softer voice?

What would it be like to have a father who spends his days snipping away at bright, beautiful cloths?

What would it be like to have an energetic younger sister?

What would it be like, to have her smile at me the way she smiles so lovingly at the rest of her family?

What would it be like, what would it be like?

And thus, the seasons passed, and he found himself in spring, still clutching that window sill, and peering in. 

He refused to admit that he wished he was in there too, with them.

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It was a few more months or so, (he didn't count, because thieves don't count the days, they just live), when all his dreaming got smashed by a cold, cruel (handsome, smart, rich, honorable) iron fist.

By now, he could admit to himself, yes, he wanted to live in a family like that, yes maybe he had a slight crush on the older sister, yes he wished he could be married into the family, and sit in front of the fireplace with them.

But he's a street rat, a thief, a scoundrel, and criminal, and heavens know people like him don't deserve to have such a wonderful life.

He had leaped onto the ledge like usual, but when he peered inside, there was one extra person in front of the blazing fireplace. 

It was a well-dressed young man, decked in the finest of cloths (or at least, the finest he ever saw in his miserable, wretched life), and bejeweled with emeralds and sapphires and diamonds. He was laughing with the tailor, and his wife, and the younger sister. He was holding the hand of the older sister, who was not working on her embroidery, rather, leaning on the man's shoulder, and smiling lovingly up at him.

On her left hand, was a sparkling emerald ring.

Something in him clenched and jolted in agony, as a sour feeling spread throughout his chest. Because, oh, how that strange man fit so well into the same picture he himself wished to be a part of. For some unknown reason, his vision blurred, and he dropped down onto the pavement with a loud, careless, heavy thump. 

Stumbling like a drunk down the alleyway, he thought, "That ring would make quite a fortune."

A sneering voice at the back of his head mocked him, saying, "No you won't, You couldn't steal from that family if your life depended on it."

His chest squeezed painfully, yet all the same, a numbness was spreading through him.

Because heaven knows a thief doesn't belong in that picture. No matter how much he wished.

And, bitterly, he thought, maybe he deserved this punishment, for all his crimes the skies frowned down upon, and for ever letting his guard down. (What happened? What happened?) He was simply getting taught a lesson, and he was fine with it.

He was a thief, his life was the steal. He was fine with it.

But as he trudged down the road, his heart no longer bleeding, rather, rattling like broken shards of glass instead, he could have sworn he heard a pitying voice, so similar to his own, tell him, "No, you're not."