The pity of a thief

In the pale light of the tavern, a muted tobacco bridge and stagnant sweating wrapped me, wrapping my throat with any possible breath. The rough air was thick enough to be bitten; I could almost enjoy corruption that penetrated from furniture, dull in color and soul. I leaned against the mahogany bar, my head tightened like a vice under the weight of yesterday’s indulgence. The bronze gears of the world turned out, rotating over and over in their mechanical wave while I, a simple, rusty cog in a corner.

Somewhere under the oppressive gauze of my hanging, I could still hear the laughter of the discoverers they had collected about the heat of the fire; Their faces, vivid with kindness, turned into the shadows wandering in my mind. Pressure behind my eyelids created a series of fragmented visions: a harpist, her fingers that danced fluently on smooth wires, an acrobat falling through the air, pieces of metals against metals like a thief thrown into an open thief another rebel rebellious. I tremble, remembering my role in these cosmic verses, pleading in the wake of disaster.

Thief – unsaturated fraud. If the world had entered a bracelet of vice and virtue, I had chosen to dive into the first. Mine was a society where the line between opportunities and the threat was drawn into soot than with paint, and I, very often drunk by the heavy aroma of danger, had overcome it with aplomb.

A quick look toward the mirror of the ribbon reflected a man I barely recognized – unworthy, scruff about my thick and unconscious jaw, eyes immersed from past sleepless nights or in Finery or filth. My clothes caught me, the remains of a faded elegance; I used to be proudly walked, but in those days a lot of time had passed. Now, I surrendered the persistent pain that pulsated in harmony with my shocked temples; Eachdo heartbeat sent a noise through the panic cogs of my mind, reminding me of my affinity for the bottle. I was pulled from a glass of amber juice, the heavy taste and burned over my tongue, seeking comfort in the bitter hug once again.

The bartender, an unconditional figure with confused hair and eyes that shine with unspoken fairy tales, observed me with a practiced indifference. I could feel his gaze by cutting the fog – a mixture of regret and judgment, like the belly of an operative fine. I pushed a coin to him with fire, my fingers trembling as if they were offering a sacrifice for the ruthless deity of my misfortune.

“Another,” I pleaded.

As I was waiting for the cleansing poison, my mind turned back to the escape that landed me in this desperate pit. Gala of the clock – a twisted issue held by those in love with the illusion of greatness and success. My role had been double: that of the master and the thief, disguised among the Elite gilded machinery. Among their bronze and velvet finishes, I had danced at night away, driving myself with dreams that shone like smooth gears of machine guns.

And yet, the clock scored inexplicably, a high -raised whip that was placed in my ears while the fir in their field of purity. I had infiltrated in their sanctuary, drawing more distribution between them with silver lies, immersing in the wires of their ambition and greed. Looking at my objectives carefully, it had been a matter of accurate observation; Under masks and pretense, I discovered more powerful breakdowns than better brandy.

I moved like a shadow, shaking through the crowd, throwing tension as the dew points over the yellow grass. Curiosity led me to the gentlemen gathered about their last inventions – mechanical weapons articulated by the human will – and to their young girls who passed to the edges, lovers with opportunities beyond fabric and embroidery. They were naive, however, human -minded, alive with the zeal I wanted to exploit.

The danger arose in the air, a fragrant risk muscle that lit a fire inside my bones, forcing me to begin that search for fate. Those good people were oblivious to the thief inside their middle, and for a while, I was happy in my masquerade. I shake my way through the brilliant chandeliers, feeling just the slightest clash of guilt while my resourceful fingers sprinkled on frozen crystal nets, accumulating those zeitgeisty and precious things; Rings with tough emeralds like temptations, compact mirrors that promised seduction and mystery – marks worthy of the little sad depths of my ambition.

Sadly, drunkenness fueled me beyond reason, and soon I believed that soirée was merely an extension of my endless aspirations. It culminated with the shock itself – a velvet case crowned with a clock, unlike anything my eyes had ever seen. It seemed as if the time itself was torn by the heavens, gilded and forged in a haunted vision fixed with an ever -present glow.

At the final electrifying moment, as I fasten the masterpiece, time withdrew, hitting with my heart as it hit the realization. The alarms were as a death knife, a synchronous of fear that was directed through me. Panic roasted on waves; It was not just the stealing of an object, but the troubling theft of my own soul – descending my ancestry in this cursed existence.

I shook the hour of the schedule under my cloak and entered the night, my thoughts joining darkness, overwhelmed by concern. The cobblestone streets shone under the moonlight like the tails of faded dreams departing as I left. Pity mixed with excitement; My stupid mind from the drink withdrew from the excitement, though not without a wild fear of what was beyond.

The journey that had come after, a torturing staircase of cold roads and alleys, led me to collide to the present, where humiliation stood waiting. The excellent tents that waved the fabric of my decisions were strengthened, inserting me again; Turendo twist just led to another shade of torment. A Sentry Royal had caught me, with steam that raised from his automatic body like the fog itself that climbed into my consciousness now, applying the law between this mechanical era.

“Your fetus hands, thief!” He had announced that the haughty gaze piercing the marrow of my bones, “will pay for this violation.”

I remembered it vividly – the brutal clash against bronze, dull head, slamming cobblestones, sewn into the fatigue of drinks and very little integrity. The clear moments capitulated in chaos while my dreams of greatness were further plunged into the muck. I felt myself pulling away between the city’s noise, losing the cascade through me like the dark waters that swallow the light.

The memory left over me now. Leaning to this bold tavern without any companies besides my unconscious grief, I shook under its unbearable weight. My fingers were clumsy against the bar, grasping the remains of my drink; My body became angry as if the world had plotted collectively against my essence. I looked up to see the bartender still seeing, a bow of his forehead, despising the dress of his smooth edges.

“That’s it,” murmured through tight teeth, “the price of theft – an annoying jump in the abyss.” My voice was a wild whisper almost lost in the endless space of grief that echoed for me, an incomprehensible void. Fire -faded sparks was washed by lighting purple, and for the first time a day, I felt more than intoxication or shame.

The realization collapsed on me, drowning me like a cane, wrapping a strangled man. I could not continue to run, nor could I pardon the simple remnants of what was left – a broken hope, a diminished soul that lasted at the boundaries of a society that despised the shadows I had chosen to dance. The thief’s spirit wrapped me completely at that moment, yet I was still. A choice was not made, a destroyed life – a brutal recognition of real crime was never theft of things, but that of time, memory and innocence lost in the loop of greed.

Restricted by painful importance, I allowed myself a moment of clarity before I once again retired to the depths of forgetfulness. The silent splendor of the despair of my arm cooling near my heart, stating his tyrannical claim on me, and I raised the glass to my lips with resolution.

“Another,” I ordered, though I fully knew that the shadows would swallow my full dreams, and the night gears would be lit, echoing through the air of Steam – a mechanized, ruthless and not charming symphony in their rhythmic dance.

Author: Opney. Illustrator: Stab. Publisher: Cyber.