Serendipity

001

"This just in: another store has been raided by an unknown person. The town is in high alert of this mysterious thief, and everyone is advised to be on their guard. It is believed that the stealer lurks around - "

She shuts off the television, sinking further into the couch. The beer can her hand is holding topples to the floor as her fingers slacken, the little object producing a metallic sound.

A deep and heavy sigh sounds around the room before the woman decides to stand and drag her weight across the floor.

It's tiring, to always have to live like this.

But hey, it's the path she chose. And she's forever chained to it, since she can't get rid of her kleptomaniac tendencies.

A phone ring blasts through the four walls of the room, her seemingly not affected by the startling sound.

Instead, she wets her lips as she crosses the room to find the source, rummaging through her blankets and looking under her bed, opening cabinets and even leaning out her window.

Finally, she finds it on the dusty floor, making a grab for it and struggling to stand upright, the alcohol working to cloud her senses.

She puts the device close to her ear and waits for the other person to speak. She isn't one to greet first, and the other person should know that.

"It was you, wasn't it?" asks the person on the other line with no qualms to any greeting.

A deep sigh tumbles out the woman's chapped lips, a hand coming up to rub at her aching temples.

"Who else?" she asks sardonically, leaning on the wall with the phone still close to her ear. "Nothing new pops up in the news. They have nothing to show except my steals, and for what?" She sighs again to try and dispel the heaviness in her being to no avail. "It's either people don't care or they're not trying hard enough to capture me."

"But do you want to be captured?"

"I - " she stops, thinking about it.

Her mind flashes back to a few hours prior, where she was dressed all in black, crowbar and duffel bag in hand as she did one of her nightly steals. She remembers the first time she committed that same crime, the exhilirating and liberating feeling that ran through her, chaining her to this fate.

Does she want to be captured? Does she want to stop?

"I don't," she finally says, conviction in her voice. She sighs then, the sound hollow and empty. "But if these people continue with this crappy attitude, I might just surrender myself willingly."

She snorts, the unpleasant sound bouncing off the too white walls.

There's a moment of silence before the other person speaks again.

"Do something else, Gina," her best friend pleads. "Your life is headed in a bad direction, and you know it. It's not too late to change your lifestyle, you know. You've got lots more to live for."

Here they go again with this same conversation. They've been through this, talked about this, gone round and round. Her best friend Veronica Wilson is an optimist at heart, always finding the silver lining to every bad situation. But that's not how Georgina Wells is. She is the polar opposite: pessimist and narcissist, living but not quite, thief and no one left in this world to care for her, except maybe herself and her best friend.

She shakes her head, momentarily forgetting the other can't see the movement.

"I have nothing else to live for, Nica," she says for the umpteenth time, weariness seeping into her tone.

Dark and sunken brown eyes behind spectacles scan the surroundings, landing on the upturned table, her unmade bed, papers littering her desk and floor, and the countless empty bottles of beer yet to be cleaned up.

Her mind makes the abrupt decision and she's saying it on the phone before she could stop to process just what she's doing.

"Listen, Nica, I appreciate the help and concern, but if you're found and they realize we talk, it might be bad for you too."

"What are you saying?" A hint of panic shines through the otherwise cool question, and even that doesn't escape Georgina's trained ears.

"I'm saying we have to cut ties here and now. Stay safe."

Not waiting for another word, she hangs up and promptly blocks the number.

She taps mindlessly on her phone for a few minutes, leaning on the wall with mind a jumbled mess when something wet lands on her phone screen.

She doesn't take a moment to pause and goes on to wipe her thumb across the spot to rid of the moisture, wondering where it came from. Another drop of the same substance hits her screen. Again, she wipes it away, bringing a hand up to her eyes. She's surprised to find her eyes were leaking tears, something that never happened after that horrible accident.

She is quick to drop her phone with a clatter and continuously wipe at her eyes, despite the stubborn tears that pour out of her sockets. Her throat feels constricted, and her chest heavy with an undecipherable tightness.

Yet, she wills down the urge to sob pathetically, biting at her arms and biceps even as the tears continued to spill.

Maybe this one time, she'll allow.

Maybe for now, she'll give herself leeway.

The waterworks start then, leaving the young woman to cry until dawn breaks.