Silent Night (Twisted Holidays)

1. Saint

ONE

SAINT

Greed.

The dictionary defines the term as having an intense desire for something, often referring to wealth, power, or food.

No one ever admits this, since it’d be seen as a fault and they don’t dare have any of those, but greed is the driving force behind people’s actions. No one does shit for free anymore. It’s how the rich stay rich and the poor stay poor. Everyone lives in their lanes, either striving for better or striving to continue as they are.

Once they’re inside their designated lane, it’s their desire for more that encourages them forward. In that, the rich showcase their wealth, gaining others’ envy, and in turn, igniting their greed. When enticed to reach for more, behaviours get twisted, and they become shadows darkening humanity.

There’s one time a year when people’s greediness emerges stronger than ever. A time of year that they seem to relish in the feeling. When whiny kids beg for more toys, stores mark-up basically everything in stock, technology companies release the most updated cell phones, game consoles, and the like right in time to be snatched up, and organizations conveniently pop-up requesting money for others in these “difficult times.”

One time of year that celebrates these behaviours.

Christmas.

Fucking Christmas .

I’ve always despised the holiday.

Perhaps it has something to do with it being the unfortunate day I was born, and every one of my twenty-six years on this planet, not one of them holds a positive memory. Adding to the fact that it was the very day that fifteen-year-old me got kicked out of the foster home I was in. Ironic that the day meant for celebrating with family was when I lost my chance at one.

And then there’s the pain that comes with this stupid holiday. I’m on the outside, walking the streets as a shadow of society, forced to witness people get what they desire while my hopes and dreams have been long ground to dust, blown into the falling snow so re-sparking them would be impossible. No one pays attention to the ghost wandering around, even within the most affluent neighbourhoods, because they’re all too selfish and too busy with their own lives to look twice. Too focused on opening their presents, so their gazes pass right over me.

It's always been like that, though. Once, it bothered me, but as I grew up, I realized how many benefits there were to being invisible. How easy it is to slip in and out of people’s lives when they barely know you’re there to begin with.

Not only their lives, but their homes too. After all, when I have nothing and they have everything, it’s only fair they share.

It’s why, a few days before Christmas, I’m walking through a neighbourhood filled with large houses—mini mansions essentially—with lawns blanketed with soft snow, strung with every holiday decoration one could stick on a property, and the expensive, luxury cars that are hidden within the multi-car garages. These are homes of wealthy people who leave every day for their equally-elaborate careers. Lawyers, doctors, businessmen, and such. Jobs that allow one to live like a king, unlike me, who picks up odd, menial jobs in each town I pass through.

These are the places where greed really shines as bright as the flashy, coloured bulbs attached to their roofs. When they already have all that money and everything a person could possibly want, yet for the holidays, they waste it on more fancy cars, the latest tech to replace the devices they got only the year before, and jewelry so grand it should be in a museum.

From the outside, they’re also the homes that seem to have the most perfect Christmases, as I’ve witnessed over my years of doing this. The ones where they sing around a piano, drink hot chocolate, and lay out cookies for the imaginary creep who sneaks into their homes. The places where they sit around the tree on Christmas morning in pyjamas that cost more than most average-income families’ entire wardrobe.

Greed is an interesting concept. Personally, I don’t consider myself greedy when I rob them of their precious items. Especially considering, the next morning, they’ll wake up to new ones, so they’ll never miss the expensive painting on the wall. Or that vase on the random table in that random sitting room no one actually uses, but they insist on paying housekeepers to maintain. They don’t need those items when they have much better uses.

Like funding my next few months of life.

I stop in front of the particular house I’ve chosen for this year; scoped out about a month ago, and spent the past few weeks studying, learning the ins and outs. The exterior walls are a light blue, and something about the shape of it, the decorations on the front lawn, it reminds me of the first house I ever stole from, four years ago.

That time was an accident, mixed with opportunity.

It soon became a lifestyle.

As I tread down the sidewalk with nothing better to do than let myself freeze in my thin, ripped jeans and even thinner jacket that I stole from someone’s shopping cart earlier in the month, I remind myself I’m alive, and it’s better than the fate of other people .

I don’t know how or why I ended up in this neighbourhood of all places, but fuck, if anyone saw me they’d probably think I was out to rob them. The two or three storey houses scream wealth; a life I’ll never experience. Long paved driveways, large bay windows displaying decorated trees, yards that are littered in holiday shit. These are the kinds of places that go all out for Halloween, and cover their property in flags for Canada Day, and even decorate for St. Patrick’s Day. The places that can afford wasting their money on unimportant shit.

Nearby yelling draws my attention to a large blue house trimmed with bright, multi-coloured lights. There’s a blown-up snowman on the front lawn, smiling and jolly and shit, but the noises coming from the family as they spill out onto the street are anything but joyful.

I stop, watching as a teenage girl screams at her parents. From the distance, she looks a bit younger than me, but I’d bet anything on this planet that she hasn’t seen or done half the shit I have, especially as she’s screeching at her family for what I assume is a stupid reason. Probably didn’t buy her a freaking tiara in the right shade of gold or something else ridiculous. She runs down the road despite the fact it’s negative twenty and she’s wearing nothing thicker than a cardigan. Her parents trail after her, not bothering to lock their door.

I don’t know what compels me, but once the family is out of view, I walk across the street, hoping all their neighbours are too busy in their own holiday cheer to bother paying the homeless guy entering this house any attention.

This is probably the worst idea I’ve ever had, but it’s as if I’m watching myself from the outside, and I can’t stop my feet from moving.

I slowly enter, passing the beige front door, half of which is a smoked glass window. Despite it being open and the icy outdoors spilling into the heated house, passing the doorway is like entering a shield, and penetrating it brings a wall of warmth that immediately begins thawing my body.

If the family returns now and calls the cops, I decide it’s all worth it for this right here, right now: the tingling sensation as my body shifts from one extreme temperature to another. Besides, could this be considered breaking-in when they never shut the door? It’s more like an invitation. Wholesome holiday cheer and all that.

I’ll only stay a moment. Warm up and go.

As I’m turning for the door, a scent of…of…damn, I can’t even describe the scent wafting from deeper in the house. It’s like a mix of warm, baked cookies, a fireplace, and what I suspect is literal happiness—not that I know what that smells like—and I find myself heading down the hallway toward it.

Everything in this place is shiny and screams wealth. The finishings are a rich wood in a natural deep colour, but kept glossy so every visitors’ gaze can’t help but pay it attention. The foyer is huge, opening up to a grand staircase, like the ones in movies. The hallways are wider than I’ve ever seen, with high, vaulted ceilings, making the second floor look down on the first, like a balcony.

Stupidly, I venture farther into the house, knowing with every step I’m losing my argument if the family returns. It went from “sorry, I was cold because I’m homeless and you left your door open” to “sorry, I’m wandering your house for reasons I’m not sure.”

I pass by an open doorway and peek inside, finding an office. The small space is lined with oak bookshelves, only one of them actually storing books. The books are leather-bound with black or gold script on the spines, giving little indication of the words inside, almost like they’re only for decoration. The other shelves hold small, ornamental items. Pointless junk.

The bulky desk is home to a metal lamp and a closed laptop, a leather executive chair tucked into it. The massive painting hanging behind the desk is what draws my attention.

It’s of a woman sitting on a chair, her smile wide as she faces forward. Her dark hair is done up, her pale dress unwrinkled. A man stands behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder in a claiming manner. He isn’t smiling, but his eyes shine with pride. Beside him is a girl, no older than the one I watched bolt down the road, like this portrait was commissioned recently. I find myself immediately captivated by her and the way she smirks at the camera, mischievous even in her parents’ presence. Dark curls are unruly around her face, and she slouches, the opposite from her parents’ rigid positions, like she’s saying with her body that she doesn’t want to be in the picture.

This must be the family who just ran off. It’s an interesting portrait. Nearly perfect, but with a lengthier study, it’s obvious there’s trouble in paradise. The parents and their stiff, formal positions indicate wanting not to be near one another, and the daughter obviously has no care about this family picture. Was probably forced into it.

I wonder what caused them to yell at one another outside. Clearly, the problems the portrait depicts carries into their realities.

As I turn away, my eye catches on something particularly shiny, encased in a glass case. A jewel-encrusted dagger propped on a stand. It must be worth a lot, to be in a case, stored in an office like this and away from visitors’ eyes. Even if it’s not “a lot” by these people’s standards, it probably is to mine.

I should leave, but what’s one more sin? I wonder how long it’ll take the man in the painting to notice it’s gone.

Before I debate too long, I open the case and slip my hand inside to ? —

“What are you doing? Who are you?”

I look up to see the girl from the painting, her curls as unruly as the portrait, her arms crossed over her chest as she watches me watch her, piecing together exactly what I’m doing.

I rip my hand away, eyes sweeping the small space for escape. She’s blocking the only exit, which means remembering what my excuse was going to be if the family found me here.

“H-hey, sorry. I won’t hurt you.”

Her dark eyes scan me, landing on my thin clothing and the holes in my jeans. With her examination, she makes her own judgement, but unlike so many others, it doesn’t harshen her otherwise soft face. A sort of pitying smile graces her lips and she shrugs .

“I believe you.” She jerks her chin to the case. “Honestly, take it. Serves the asshole right. But they’re, like, minutes away. I turned through someone’s yard to lose them, but they’ll figure it out soon. So if you’re planning to steal it, you should probably take it and go now.”

She’s letting me go free? Even better: she’s letting me steal from her house?

It might be a trick but being homeless, starving, and freezing says otherwise, so I wrap my hand around the hilt of the dagger and shove it into an inner pocket of my jacket before moving toward her, my steps slow so she doesn’t freak out.

I stop in front of her, staring down, seeing now she truly can’t be that much younger than me. Older than a teenager but not by much. Slightly older than the painting on the wall, I now see. As I make my own assessment, she’s obviously coming up with one too, her gaze scanning my face. She’s the closest I’ve been to another person in a long time and it’s borderline unnerving to be studied so closely.

She jolts before stepping back. I want to know what’s in her head, but considering I’m a thief standing in her house and her parents are only minutes away, it’s not the time for conversation.

“Thank you,” I whisper as I pass her, and before I can understand what I’m doing, I lift a hand to her cheek, stroking calloused fingers along skin belonging to a girl meant for the lifestyle this house suggests. For once, I’m not annoyed by this fact, but enthralled. She’s so fucking soft, but before I grow addicted to what I can’t afford, I take off, down the hall and back outside into the cold before cutting around the back of her house and well out of sight, my stolen object safely in my pocket.

I never got the chance to thank that girl for fighting with her family that day. She didn’t only give me a few minutes of warmth, but she also introduced me to a new life. Pawn shops ask few questions and that dagger paid out a pretty penny. Enough to put up two months’ rent on a rundown apartment and managed to stay warm enough for the remainder of those coldest winter months before skipping town .

That was four years ago, and for the past three of them, I found myself in similar neighbourhoods every holiday season. It’s easy to slip inside when back doors are so often left unlocked or easily pickable. I’ve learned to choose a house and study it and its occupants for the weeks leading up to the holidays, learning their patterns, scoping what I can of their valuables to determine if it’ll be profitable.

The house I stand in front of is home to a middle-aged couple. All week, they’ve been unloading bags upon bags of presents after coming home from whichever white-collar jobs they have. They use Christmastime to fund their incessant need for more material items by spending all that they make at those very jobs. Idiots. Unlike so many other families in the area, they don’t even have the excuse of wanting to spoil their snot-nosed kids—which only causes children to grow up as greedy, selfish, and spoiled as the adults around them—because they have none that I’ve seen.

Either way, I’ve seen the labels on the bags they carry inside. Instead of stealing art or a valuable object, I could rob any one of the gifts beneath the tree and be set for a while.

In two nights, I’ll return.

In three, I’ll be gone from this town.