Writing Prompts and the Outcome

The Rose of Life

In life, you were the greatest thief who ever lived. But, as tends to happen, now you're the greatest thief who ever died. But, it was on purpose: you've set your sights on stealing something from Death itself.

TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE (BRIEF)

I glance at the needle in my hand. I know it's time. As I fiddle with the thin pointed object in my hand, I reminisce on all of my accomplishments. I haven't even died yet, and my life is flashing before my eyes. Pride swells in my chest as I remember my first achievement; my very first heist.

It wasn't technically a heist, but when your 15, the world seems much bigger than it is.

It was a warm, cheerful summer afternoon. The irony is amusing. I wasn't playing outside, basking in the sun like the other teenagers my age. I was doing something much harder. Growing up. My father had been diagnosed with stage 2 lung cancer. Although it's treatable, we didn't have nearly enough money to pay for his care. I had to watch him die.

I knew that day, as I watched him hacking up blood, trying to not to show how much pain he was in, that I had to do something. And so I did. I planned on stealing medicine from the hospital. I'd been there so many times, listening to the doctors giving all the options to my father, that I basically had the list of treatments memorized.

I wanted to feel like I was doing something important. I wanted to feel like I was helping. I had read every single article I could find. I read public police reports on successful thieves in the past. I even watched Youtube videos on how to pick locks. I cared dearly for my father, and I did not plan to let him slip away.

Being my size and age, getting past any sort of security in a hospital is fairly easy. The only real problem was the locks to the medicine cabinets, but I had it handled. I'd practiced picking multiple different locks a million times. You'd be surprised how easy it is to break into a house (the fact that it had been my own house was irrelevant).

I won't bore you with the rest of the story. I got in, got the meds, and got out, no problem, right? But I had forgotten. My father was a good man. He had refused to take it, even if him dying meant I was left alone in an unforgiving world. He'd said there is someone more deserving.

But of course, there is always someone more deserving.

I'd tried to understand, but I was still bitter when he died.

My mother had died when I was 10 and he was all I had left. I was never the same after that. I had made damn sure never to fall into foster homes. I spent more time with crowds I shouldn't be seen with. More time in places I shouldn't be. No one cared either way. That's how my "career" started.

I let out a bittersweet chuckle. That stubborn bastard was a good man until the end.
My first time was nothing compared to my last. I was especially proud of this one. To cut a long story short, the queen of England will not miss her crown.
A rush of satisfaction comes over me, and I sigh. I had a good life. And I'll have a good afterlife. Before I back out, I jab the syringe into my arm and feel myself fade.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

My eyes fluttered open and immediately shut as the lights all around me flooded my brain. In reality, it wasn't actually that bright. In fact, it was quite dim. Is dying supposed to feel like a hangover?

I hear a sound outside my door and sit up lightning-fast, all instincts ready to fight. A faint clang comes from downstairs, accompanied by low humming. I also detect the faint smell of eggs and bacon. I look around the room I'm in, feebly stepping towards the window. My hazel eyes flick from landmark to landmark. Interesting.
Testing out the floor in the room, I conclude his house was as old as expected. I take off my shoes, treading quietly and carefully. I've done this a thousand times. Walk on the edge of your feet. Keep near the furniture. Slow breathing. It's basically second nature now.