It was a Wednesday afternoon; I had spent the day robbing various houses in the South London area to satiate my heroin addiction. I usually hit those who had disposable income coming out the wazoo. Stealing from anyone is quite an arduous process; with an abundance of CCTV technology in homes nowadays, I took extra measures to conceal my identity. I wore a black balaclava to make sure both eyes found items quickly; whether I looked straight or saw them in my periphery, I always found what I wanted. I sometimes wore white trainers as a means to subtly undermine those occupying the house alongside police efforts to catch me; I wanted to leave them with at least one clue to my identity and muddy up their expensive rugs. I also wore a black hoodie because British weather is unique due to its capriciousness. I walked around unmasked in a neighbourhood that felt vaguely familiar. I put my head down and walked a few steps on the pavement but looked up to avoid suspicion. I found myself staring intently at a giant house. I thought about the people in it before I decided to ransack the place. Did I think about them long enough? Fuck no. I gave them enough thought...

 

I walked toward the bottom steps of this enigmatic house before having an epiphany that stopped me in my tracks; I was standing outside the house I grew up in for the first thirteen years of my life. A torrent of memories began to drown any passing thought that tried swimming to the surface. I remembered the time my Uncle fell into the thorn bush outside. I remembered pressing my face on the opaque glass of the front door after running through the park, leaving residue in the shape of my face. I remember my mother cradling me in her arms after falling off my bike and scraping my knees on the pavement. I suddenly became flustered; I had to see whether they besmirched the house or kept it intact.

 

I climbed the steps to the front door and saw two flowerpots on the left-hand side and right-hand side; I rooted my hand around the flower pot on the right-hand side for about a minute before being pricked by a spare key. I stood up and swiped it. I looked where the thorn bush once was and saw it was cut and replaced with a mediocre spider plant. The silver door at the front of the house replaced with an uninviting black door that towered above me; however, I still turned the key slowly and waltzed on through. The egg white bannisters and the red carpet had not changed; they still made me think of candy canes. The smell of incense permeating through the house shocked me; it always smelled of silk cut cigarettes.

 

I made my way into the living room and saw a Sky TV box instead of a Telewest box in front of a widescreen TV. Despite Telewest becoming obsolete several years ago, I could not help but feel disappointed upon seeing a Sky TV box since Telewest provided me with my first ever crush. When I was six years old, I taped a copy of the music video for “Oops…I Did It Again” by Britney Spears on a VHS tape, watching it obsessively when my parents went to bed before switching over to cartoons, I could barely understand on Adult Swim. The crème coloured sofas were still in their exact positions. The old coffee table, unfortunately, was replaced by a horrid glass table. I moved onto the dining room; I was surprised because every aspect of the room had not changed. The wooden walls were still intact, and the dining table and chair set were still as brown as ever. I peeked into the ensuite kitchen and laughed because the owners did not bother to upgrade the cooker. I looked in the fridge and found a pepperoni pizza wrapped in clingfilm. I released it from its PVC prison, put it in the oven and ate the most mouth-watering pizza in the universe. Well, it is better to steal something rather than nothing.

 

After eating the pizza, I hungered for the room I used to call my own. I had no interest in what the downstairs bathroom had to offer, so I ran upstairs and booted the door to my old room open. I was stunned the room had transformed into a shadow of its former self. As I walked inside, sunbeams galloped across the room, acting as a spotlight illuminating the rooms changes. I hung my head in shame upon realising the PlayStation one was gone; I had many fond memories of beating my brother on Tekken 3 despite how difficult the combat mechanics were to master. Although the bunk bed was still in the same place, the stereo which sat on a small table adjacent was gone; it was now home to a small Bluetooth speaker. I had many good times with that stereo; I was allowed to crank up the volume and listen to the “The Marshall Mathers LP” by Eminem despite being ten years old. I am not too sure whether she was oblivious to the misogyny and gore in his lyrics. I felt like I managed to one-up my mother with each passing minute of the album.

I sat down on the floor and started crying because I realised, I was no longer the same person inside this room. Tears trickled from my eyes to my chin, nestling in the loose threads of my balaclava. There was nothing to steal; the people living in the house had already stolen the atmosphere with change. I was no longer the optimistic kid who would jump at the opportunity to help others; I am now a thief and a vagabond whose hopes and remorse disintegrated a long time ago.