Their Tainted Fingers

the two-dollar thief

The alley smells like piss, and Rory's tears do as well.

"Do not press the trigger."

Sweating and on the verge of sobbing, there was nothing Rory could do. The imaginary screaming made her head throb. The hooded boy in a jean jacket had his fingers on the trigger, daring to shoot at any moment. Her heart thumped in her chest, threatening to burst out of her ribcage. A knot twisted itself in her stomach, forcing her to gasp for air.

"Give me your bag, or I'll shoot."

The boy had nothing better to do than rob people on the first day of school. Rory did not have luck on her side. She had nothing better to do than give him the lifeless gray pouch of money she had in her satchel.

"I'll give you my money, but nothing else."

Without lowering the gun, he pounced, grabbing the satchel from Rory's shoulder, and running for it. What else could he want? Others would tell Rory to leave the situation as it was, but no. She couldn't. She had to get the bag. Running through the field, she went the direction the robber went.

Go to hell. Don't robbers have better things to do?

The culprit had to be sitting on the lime-colored lawn. There sat hundreds of people Rory wished she could remember. Which one of them would be the one who dared to steal her satchel?

Swishing through the crowd, the teal-colored jean jacket stood out. Rory sighed out loud. The leather satchel hung on his shoulder, half-closed. This moment had been waiting for her as she broke into a sprint, maneuvering through a maze of checkered picnic blankets, hands, and feet scattered everywhere. Her worn-out pair of sneakers may or may not survive the run, although that didn't stop her from gathering speed.

"Hey, watch it!" Stepping on someone's hand wasn't a problem at that moment. She ran.

Scanning the lawn for a teal-colored jean jacket, Rory sped up. Her glasses bounced on her sweaty nose as her eyes caught onto the limp on the thief's left leg. Making a mental note to write that down for avoiding him in the future, Rory had to focus on getting her satchel. I can't afford to lose it!

The scoundrel disappeared into an alleyway at the end of the lawn, prompting Rory to follow. Panting, she had to come to an abrupt halt to catch her breath. Shit. He disappeared. Scanning the area around her, Rory couldn't find her bag. The odds of getting back her journal plunged to absolute zero. Her heart thudded in her chest, threatening to bulge out any second. Her hands shook. The surrounding temperature rose to a million degrees. People would call this an exaggeration, but Rory dreaded the moment when the reason why she was standing alone in an alleyway expunged itself from her short-term memory.

Where was it? Where? Her brain didn't seem to work. A force pulled her head in a thousand different directions. Air didn't seem to make its way into her lungs. Every breath was raspy, arid and left her gasping for air. She needed to leave. She couldn't stand staying in the damned alleyway much longer. She had to leave. No, she couldn't leave. She couldn't leave without the journal that confirmed her mere existence. She had to find it.

Don't overreact, Rory. You've been through worse.

The wall. The wall. Rory forced herself to lean onto the brick wall in the alleyway. Her head hit the bricks with a loud thud as her legs refused to do its job.

A blotch of leather-brown demanded her attention. The leather satchel she had been searching for lay on the cemented floor. A familiar pain started in Rory's stomach, twisting into a knot at the sight of the satchel's juxtaposition to a large puddle of water, and a metal trap door.