The Silent Thief

Home is where floors are littered with bodies from the night before. It is where you should never walk barefoot in case you step on a needle or a broken bottle, or worse still, a stranger with hungry hands and thirsty lips. Home is colder than the coldest winter so you wrap yourself in silver foil and sweet dreams.

Home is an ever revolving door, never pausing except when the sun rises behind the trees, just as the street lamps are turned off and the light in the sky take its shift. When the birds are singing the tune of blue skies and pebbled beaches, and the bodies on the floor are still lost in the chaos of the night before.

Home is where you steal your moment silent as a thief, climbing over maze of bodies, dodging stodgy tikka masala dripping frozen in its foil. Home is where you find a slice of ham and cheese pizza still untouched, where you make yourself a drink with tap water and hidden sugar, and you tiptoe into the garden and close home behind you.

It doesn’t matter how cold it is outside, you never feel it. The cold morning air is a mink blanket around your skin and all you feel is free. All you feel is calm, until home wakes up and drags you into the mouth of the tornado.

 

About the author:

Kereen Getten has been writing short stories since she was eight years old (does that count?). In between trying to function unsuccessfully as an adult, she writes semi-regularly for her blog, more regularly for social media and occasionally enters the odd writing competition. She also loves chocolate, like, a lot.

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