Jaded

[1] A Thief With No Loot

'We all have gasoline in our garage' she'd said, 'just ask anyone' she'd said. Right, as if it's that easy. I can't just knock on any random door and ask for gas when my face is probably everywhere on the local news. This may be the neighboring town, but things are so quiet round these parts that the sheriff's runaway daughter is bound to dominate several local channels. Especially since she left such a political mess behind.

It's a miracle the lady on the street didn't recognize me. Then again, she looked like the type to ignore the news entirely so maybe that's why. Because it's not like my appearance has changed too much since my 'departure' a few hours ago. Same long black hair, narrow blue eyes.  

If only I had the patience to wait a few months, till I turned 18, then nobody would look for me. I wouldn't be a runaway, simply an adult leaving home. But if I did have that kind of patience, I probably wouldn't be running to begin with. I probably wouldn't even need to run.

If I had any sense at all, even a drop, I would have at least filled the tank before fleeing. Or grabbed some cash. But no, no patience and not a lick of sense. 17 years of life and I find myself here, breaking into some stranger's garage.

Really though, it's the street lady's fault for informing me everyone here supposedly stores a bottle of gasoline in their garages. I shimmy with the handle and pull the door up, just a foot or two off the ground, enough for me to slide in. My hand remains on the metal of the handle as I fumble around inside, feeling for any object I can prop as a stopper to turn my entry point into an escape way.

Once my exit is secured, I hop onto my feet, scanning the single car space. Strands of moonlight filter through the windows on the door, shrouding the room in a blanket of silver. I feel like I'm looking through one of those black and white filters.

This has got to be one of the messiest goddamn garages I have ever seen. How is anyone supposed to steal anything in this mess?! I doubt there's even any room in here to contain my groan, let alone allow me to walk around and sift through things without making a racket.

A cursory glance doesn't turn up any gas, though I now have a pretty good idea what this family's solution to old items is- chuck 'em in the garage. Old backpacks clutter the scene, notably piled onto a treadmill stuck in incline mode. Towards the back there's a tower of plastic boxes, filled with everything from stuffed animals to piles of cracked binders with papers jutting out. Dark stains peek out from the cracks in the disorder, where the floor is visible. 

I do the best I can, lifting whatever isn't tied down or stuck together (gross). There's a distinctly organic aroma hanging in the air, like a mix of stagnant water and old pizza. I try to keep my eyes on the door leading inside the house while also searching for that god forsaken gasoline bottle.

Nothing. That damn street lady was a liar. I did all this sneaking with nothing to show for it. Better leave now before I'm discovered, I've already stretched my luck.

As I turn around, a dog crawls through the open garage door. Oh crap. No, no, no. Don't bark, please for the love of god don't bark.

I stay still and silently plead with the dog. Surprisingly, it doesn't make any noise. It simply wags its tail and rubs its torso against my legs. Wow, never been liked by a dog before. Actually, its kinda cute. I can't see it but I bet its cute. Maybe if I pet it just a little, just a stroke behind the ear to let it know I appreciate the silence...

No. Leave, now.

Right, okay. I shift my weight around and hobble towards the exit. Stepping on my comrades' tail is certainly a no-no so I get on my tippy toes. Bad decision; my ankle instantly buckles and I begin tumbling down. Guess I haven't fully healed from two days ago.