The Alaska State Writing Consortium
Northern Lit - ASWC's eZine

Opening the Door

Bonnie E.

I’ve never been a good student. My parents say that if I don’t ‘get real,’ I’ll end up on the streets, a petty thief. What they don’t know is that I prefer life on the streets, but not as some kind of pick-pocket. I am a full-fledged, “better-lock-your-doors” thief.

I guess I have been genetically destined to be a thief. I am average looking, with plain brown hair and brown eyes. People did not seem to notice me. This fact used to annoy me, but I have learned to use that to my advantage.

Most houses are easy to break in to. No matter what people say, the more stuff someone has, the easier it is to steal. People never think it will happen to them, but thieves only care about where the goods are located. The way I choose my target is by walking through town until I find an expensive looking house. “My house has the latest security system,” a woman will brag to her friends. “It is equipped with lasers and sirens. I am ready for anything.” To bad no one ever bothers to turn their system on.

I am always walking around town watching everyone. I sometimes stop to explain my reasoning to myself aloud. “The gate is closed. The front door is locked. They probably left through the front since the car is always parked in the driveway instead of the garage. I bet the back door is wide open!” Sure enough, the doorknob turns easily.

This system has only failed me once. It turns out that police officers aren’t the only occupants to worry about. You can always spot a cop’s home by a parked police cruiser in the driveway. “Did you hear the news,” was the gossip at school. “That scary burglar was caught. He was dumb enough to try to rob the house belonging to a cop.” The occupant of the house I was walking into was much more dangerous than a police officer.

It all began with a fight with my mom. It always does. I had gotten another bad grade on a math test. “Oh honey, why do you do this?” She always sighs like all the burdens of the world are on her shoulders: however, the only burdens on those shoulders was her perfectly coiffed hair.

“I failed the test as a statement to my teacher. He is so arrogant and condescending. I am tired of it,” I complained.

“But honey, this reflects badly on me. You know image is everything,” my mom explained as she does every time when we have a conversation like this.

“Mom, you don’t care about me!” I cry out in an attempt to hake her hear me.

“Honey, please don’t shout. It is making me stressed and you know my massage appointment isn’t until next week.”

No matter what I do my mom never cares. Oh she will pretend to care, for the benefit of strangers, but it is never real. All she cares about is getting the perfect tan or the shade of nail polish that matches her outfit. I gave her the nickname, ‘Mother Barbie’ since she worries about her clothes but has no heart, unless you count the diamond one she wears on her hand.

When we fight like this, I just walk out the front door and walk until I can’t walk any more. On this particular afternoon, I roamed into a new neighborhood. It was a rich “hood”, probably the only one I hadn’t “visited,” yet. I picked a nice house with a white picket fence out front. You know the kind, with flowerboxes full of blooms on every window. I guess it is the type of house I always wanted.

“Too bad my mom could never think to save money for a house like this,” I complained to no one. “There was only one way I could ever get into a house like this. Very quietly!”

The car was gone and the lights were off. I looked around as I opened the front gate. The streets were empty. I started towards the house. As I reached for the doorknob, I had a bad feeling and a shiver ran up my arm. I have never had such a hard time opening a door.

A strange memory went through my head. It was of my history lesson from last week’s class. “The buddists believe in what is called Karma,” my teacher explained. “This means good or bad energy follows actions.” At the time I thought it was a stupid idea. Now, I am not so sure.

When I worked up the courage to pry open the door, I stood in the doorway with my mouth hanging open, not knowing what to do. The room was destroyed. Not like someone had gotten there before me and cleaned it out. It looked like a huge fight had happened. Blood was everywhere. I finally understood. I had stepped into a room where someone had been murdered. I guessed it must have just happened because the blood was still fresh. The murderer must have gone to “dump the body”.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t call the police because they would want to know why I was in the house. So I did the only thing I could do. I tried to solve this case all by myself. I know every inch of this town. If anyone could figure this out, I could. Thinking about the layout of the town I realized there was only one place this could end up. There are no construction sites and no marshes. There is a river, but it is crystal clear and a body would be spotted quickly. The place I had in mind is where no one would think twice about a dead body. The local funeral home was only a few blocks away.

Convenient.

I started running. I got there in about three minutes. At the door, I felt that same shiver run up my arm. Again, a feeling like the warmth was sucked out of me. I figure that must be what Pandora felt when she opened the box that released all the evil in the world. In a way, that door was hiding an evil beyond all understanding, a murderer.

I paused, gathered my courage, and entered the funeral home. There were over ten coffins spread out. I crept in quietly, but he must have heard me. I know it was a “he” because I heard his laugh. Someone hit me over the head and the lights went out.

When I woke up, everything was dark. I felt into my pocket and found the cell phone my mom had given me for Christmas. She is usually not that helpful. I opened the phone hoping against hope I had service. Sure enough, I had four bars. I love modern technology. In the light from my cell phone, I could see that I was surrounded by padded walls, with a pillow under my head. I was in a coffin.

After about five minutes of “freaking out”, I called the police. When I told them my story, I think they were skeptical. They knew better than to ignore a teenager about to die. Now all I had to do was wait.

“Hello, is anybody in here? This is the police,” I heard a man’s voice shout.

When I heard him calling my name, I banged on the lid. “I’m here, help me, please. Oh, please,” I was begging. Never had I been so glad to see the police behind a door that I wanted opened!

The rest of the day was filled with doctors, questions, and a very worried mom. “Oh honey,” my mom cooed in a fake worried voice. I am so glad that you are safe.” I could tell she hadn’t been that worried. She had taken time to paint her nails to match her new outfit. More fake love from ‘Mother Barbie.”

In the end, the police found the body they were looking for in one of the other coffins. That genius of a murderer, came back to the scene to check on the bodies. I nearly collapsed laughing when I heard that he made it so easy for the cops.

This happened about three years ago. No, this did not stop me from my life of thievery, but it did stop my random choice of targets. I even made a name for myself by successfully entering every house in town. That is 300, if you are keeping track. However, no burglary resulted in an adventure as exciting as that one.

Thank goodness!

Listen to this story (mp3 file)