The Book of Limbo

Chapter 1

Had I known I was going to die within the week, I probably would have done something far more exciting with my evening than stand out in the cold in front of my mother's house, contemplating how I was going to break in and rob the place.

Now before you judge, I'll have you know that my intentions at the time were motivated strictly by necessity, not greed. I just thought I would to clarify that as the two are often and easily confused, especially when money is involved.

How I saw it was: so long as I needed my mother's money more than I inherently wanted it, my motive shouldn't qualify as greed; and if I wasn't motivated by greed, then breaking in and stealing from my sleeping mother wasn't really a crime in the grand scheme of things right?

In a way, this was nothing more than my mom supporting her child in his time of need, and as any sufficiently convoluted rationalization will tell you: there's absolutely nothing wrong with that.

But enough about my motives. The issue at hand wasn't why I was doing it, it was how I was going to bloody do it.

Of course I had already known that the front and back doors would be locked, and after my last uninvited visit, I had little doubt the windows would be too. Step-Dick wouldn't be making that mistake twice.

That wasn't the problem, no, the problem was the sticker on the front door depicting the house's latest advancements in Secure Property Management, complete with alarm, motion detectors and even a security camera.

A quick lesson in the art of robbery for you:
The more you broke into a place, the tighter the security became, especially if that place so happened to be your own house.

Step-Dick would probably get a good laugh out of seeing me now, struggling to find a way back into the place I spent so many years trying to escape. Life was full of these cruel little ironies and Dick never was one to let them go unappreciated.

"It was the mark of an educated man to recognize and appreciate good irony." He liked to boast, often and loudly.

He was quite adept at it too, I'll give him that much, except of course, when he was on the receiving end of it; That had all the dilapidated humor of a comedian who couldn't stand being the butt of a joke.

See, Richard HATED being called Dick. As such, that was of course all I would ever call him.

The lesson in unappreciated irony was that I had never understood how Dick could even be a nickname for Richard until after I had met the guy; suddenly Dick did seem very appropriate. When I told him as much, he told me that asshole was a more fitting nickname for me than my own name was. Real original Dick.

But back to the matter at hand, Mom and Step-Dick weren't going to rob themselves after all.

I surveyed my old house with the fresh perspective of an interloper, a rather refreshing take on a tired sight I had to admit. You should try it sometime.

Seemingly mundane features like a drainpipe or the low hanging roof suddenly shined with the incandescent light of opportunity, structural weaknesses such as a cellar window or a screen door became vulnerable weak points to be utilized and exploited. It was so enrapturing I almost forgot how much I hated this place. Almost.

But then I would see Mom's obtrusive crucifix hanging proudly in the living room window, and Dick's American flag obnoxiously swaying in a Canadian winter's wind, and I would remember. I lost my home long before it lost me.