Faith Forgotten

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I normally like rain. I find it comforting, for some reason. The sound of it tapping against walls and windows makes me feel safe. I can sit on my bed, listen to the rain, and think, gee, it sure is terrible out there. I’m so lucky to be inside where the rain can’t hurt me! Those moments are when I like rain.

This is not one of those moments.

The rain continues to pour down, pelting my skin with tiny bullets. Water normally seems so harmless, being all liquid-y and swishy. But no, make water into little droplets and throw them from the sky and it turns out they hurt.

What’s more, you would think that it would help being under trees. That the leaves would serve as a sort of a barrier - a roof, if you will - that would stop the raindrops from attacking me. But it turns out that leaves tend to act like funnels or something, because now, instead of drops, I’m being hit with full-out streams of the stuff.

When I finally make it home, I slam the door so hard that I’m afraid the shack will fall apart on me. I lean against the door and hold my breath, and thankfully nothing happens. I exhale and close my eyes in thanks to whatever powers (or lack thereof) might be above.

The shack really is what it’s called - a shack. A little, rundown thing that might’ve been a house once but it’s really just a box made of wood. There’s enough room for the few things I have in it - an old, rickety bed with one of those thin, summer camp mattresses, a small table with some holes in the surface, and a battery operated lamp. In the middle of the floor is a small pile of firewood, because there’s no fireplace and I’ll be damned if I can’t have a fire.

It’s kind of a wonder I found this place at all, to be honest. It’s hidden securely by a circle of thick evergreens. If you were just passing, you wouldn’t even notice the place. Not to mention it’s about a three-minute walk from a small stream, which means I have access to drinking water and I can, you know, bathe. That’s kind of a must-have.

So, yeah. It’s not paradise, but I’m surviving.

Once I’m sure that my house isn’t going to crumble around me, I walk toward the firewood. Outside, thunder crashes. I reach into my jacket and retrieve a lighter, which I flip open and use to light a fire. The glow from the flames mix with the lightning and my skin warms slowly.

Now that I have a sufficient source of light and heat, I set my prize down on the table - fifty dollars from the bookstore I just robbed.

I sigh and bite my lip. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken fifty. Maybe I should go back and return half of it. No, all of it. I don’t need this much - I can make it to California minus fifty dollars.

I kick my sneakers off and sit down in front of the fire, pulling my knees up to my chest. This was certainly not the first time I had stolen anything, but no matter how many times I do it, I can’t seem to convince myself that I really do need this money.

But this is definitely, definitely the last time I’m stealing. With the fifty I just added, I now have exactly one thousand, five hundred dollars. That was my goal and I’m sticking to it.

I started stealing a few weeks after I moved into the shack, about three years ago. I was twelve years old and trying to live on my own in the woods. When it finally occurred to me that I could not live like this for the rest of my life, I realized that the only way I could get money while still laying low, I had to steal.

So I started sneaking into shops, taking only small amounts of money. Over time, I started taking a little more. I would go sporadically over a period of weeks, which turned to months, which turned to years. A few weeks ago I hit fourteen-fifty, and that’s when I knew my next hit had to be bigger than I’d ever done - fifty dollars. I don’t know much about the value of money, but that might be enough to hit some sort of news. Especially if they connect it with the previous robberies, but I think I’ve covered my tracks enough that they shouldn’t.