Chapter 11 - Thief Part 2

The boy stepped back into the shadows, his eyes narrowing as he observed the scene before him. He noticed another boy, roughly his own age, but strikingly different in appearance. This boy was dressed in a finely tailored suit, radiating an air of affluence. His attire was adorned with accessories such as gems and precious stones—luxuries that the boy like him could only dream of. Every aspect of the well-dressed boy's presence spoke of wealth and elegance, starkly contrasting with the grimness of his own life.

'Who is he?' the boy wondered, feeling a mix of curiosity and anger. The thought of the well-dressed boy's identity intrigued him. 'He must be someone important, perhaps a royal,' he spat. The boy in the shadows assumed that such a distinguished figure must move in circles far removed from his own, where wealth and status dictated relationships. 

The rich boy crouched down and gently patted the little girl's head, his voice tinged with kindness. Observing this, the boy decided it was time to leave the city to avoid getting caught. "She must be wealthy too if she's with someone like him. I thought she was like me, but I was wrong," he murmured softly. He then turned his attention to the bag he was holding, checking its contents. After counting, he smiled with satisfaction. "She doesn't need this, but I do," he thought, a triumphant smile spreading across his face.

As he passed by a stall selling delicious baked goods, the enticing aroma wafted through the air, making everyone who walked by famish—and the boy was no exception. He stood at the front of the stall, his mouth watering as he gazed longingly at the freshly baked treats. However, the people passing by cast disgusted glances in his direction, their expressions full of contempt. The vendor, noticing the young boy eyeing his products, suddenly widened his eyes in realization.

"You! Stay away from here! This place is not meant for the likes of you!" the vendor shouted, his voice dripping with disdain. "Go back to the trash where you belong! Thief!" he continued, his words laced with evident disgust and exasperation. The boy felt the sting of the vendor's harsh words, his hopeful anticipation of a small taste of something delicious crushed by the harsh reality of his situation. The rejection was a familiar yet bitter reminder of his place in this world, a place far removed from the warmth and comfort that others took for granted.

The passersby glanced at the commotion, murmuring to each other, "A thief? We should get the guard." The boy, named Thomas, was only eight years old. Hearing the people's conversations around him, his eyes grew cold. "Hey, old man, I'm not here to steal! I have money, and I will buy!" he shouted defiantly. "Money, you say? I bet you stole that too," a plump lady holding a fan remarked with a sneer.

"I'm not talking to you, pig," the boy murmured softly. "Are you saying something?" the plump lady asked, irritated by the boy's actions. "Look at him, have no manners at all" "What can we expect from children like him" "Look at his clothes" "I bet he didn't have a mother to discipline him," the comments of the crowd makes Thomas fuming with anger. But what anger him the most is the comment about her mother. He faced the crowd, and uttered loudly, enough for them to hear, "Don't ever mock my mother. All of you rich people are monster!". Thomas run upon divulging his thoughts. 

He passed by another stall selling baked goods. The bread here didn't look as appetizing as at the first stall, but it was still good enough for a starving boy like him. He approached the stall and bought a few pieces of bread. This time, the vendor was an old lady who seemed indifferent to her customer, handing over the bread without much acknowledgment. "Thank you," Thomas said, trying to be polite, but the old lady neither responded nor looked at him.

Thomas ran along the edge of the city, darting into one of the narrow alleys. This alley was different from the others because it led to the slums—a place teeming with people like him. These were people who had nothing, without homes or food. The slums were a chaotic maze of dilapidated shacks and makeshift shelters, pieced together with scraps of wood, metal, and tattered cloth. The air was thick with the smell of decay and unwashed bodies, mingling with the occasional scent of cooking fires.

The ground was littered with refuse, and muddy paths snaked between the haphazard dwellings. Children with dirt-smudged faces and ragged clothes played in the streets, their laughter a stark contrast to the harshness of their surroundings. Desperate eyes peered out from dark corners, watching for any opportunity to snatch a morsel or a coin. Most of the residents survived by stealing or participating in illegal activities, driven by the relentless struggle to make it through another day.

Thomas entered the alley, but before doing so, he tucked the bag of coins into the pocket of his worn-out pants and slipped the bread inside his dirtied shirt. He quickened his pace, remaining vigilant. The pungent smell emanating from the alley greeted him, but he paid it no mind; after all, this was his home. Suddenly, two teenage boys approached him. They were clad in dirtied, worn-out clothes. One of them sneered, "Hey boy! Do you have something with you?" "I don't," Thomas replied curtly, avoiding eye contact and continuing to walk briskly without looking back.

The guys just stared at him, watching his every move. Thomas ignored their piercing gazes, quickening his pace. He moved swiftly past the makeshift homes and ramshackle dwellings of the slums, finally reaching the edge of the settlement and entering the forest. The dense foliage provided a stark contrast to the chaos of the slums.

His house, a humble cottage, was located at the edge of the slum, deep in the heart of the forest. The small structure was built from weathered wood. The roof was a patchwork of old shingles and thatch, some parts tattered and sagging, struggling to keep out the elements. The front door, slightly askew on its hinges, creaked loudly whenever it was opened. Windows, though small, were covered with thin, translucent cloths that served as makeshift curtains, allowing a dim light to filter through while offering a semblance of privacy. 

Inside, the cottage was sparsely furnished but functional. A rough wooden table stood in the center of the main room, surrounded by mismatched chairs, each one showing signs of age and heavy use. In one corner, a small wood-burning stove provided warmth and a place to cook simple meals. Next to it, a stack of firewood was neatly piled, ready for the next meal or cold night. The walls were adorned with a few personal items—a faded picture of a woman, a handmade clock, and some simple drawings. A single, worn rug covered the wooden floor, its edges frayed from years of use.

Two small bedrooms branched off from the main room, each just large enough to hold a narrow bed and a makeshift nightstand. The beds were covered with threadbare blankets, providing minimal comfort against the chill that seeped in during the night. Despite its humble appearance, the cottage was a sanctuary for Thomas, offering a sense of safety and solace amidst the harshness of the world outside.

Living in the forest was safer for Thomas and his siblings than staying with the rest of the slum's inhabitants, who often stole from them or ridiculed them for amusement and worst, beating them. The forest offered a semblance of peace and security that the slums could never provide.

A small girl, about four years old, ran to him with a wide smile on her face. Her hair was dirty and unkempt, and her clothes were too big for her, full of holes and ragged edges. Thomas's heart warmed at the sight of her, and he opened his arms wide, inviting her in. The little girl ran into his embrace eagerly.

"Tom, Tom, do you have food?" she asked enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling with hope.

"Yes, Macy. Let's go inside. I brought your favorite," he replied, smiling down at her.

"Wow!" Macy exclaimed happily. Without waiting for another word, she grabbed a piece of bread and clumsily began to munch on it as she dashed inside their house, her excitement evident in every step.

Inside, a six-year-old boy was tidying up. "Tom, you're here," he said, acknowledging his brother's arrival. "Yes, Gab. I brought food," Thomas replied. The three of them were siblings, living alone in the small cottage. They had no father, and their mother had passed away due to an illness. They were poor, with no one to turn to and no known relatives to offer help. 

His brother Gab gave him a serious look, sadness evident in his eyes. "What's the matter?" Thomas asked.

"Where did it come from?" Gab asked, his voice heavy with concern.

"What do you mean?" Thomas replied, puzzled.

"The food," Gab clarified. "You don't have any money, and you don't have a job."

"Gab, you know no one will hire me, not even for small jobs," Thomas said, his annoyance growing.

"So, did you steal? Is that it?" Gab asked, his voice rising. "Tom, look at the people outside. I don't want you to end up like them."

"I don't have a choice!" Thomas shouted, surprising Gab.

Their little sister, Macy, started crying loudly upon hearing their argument. Gab immediately went to comfort her, while Thomas stormed outside. "Close the door and go to bed early. Don't wait up for me," he called over his shoulder.

"Wait, where are you going?" Gab asked, but Thomas was already out the door.