pocket full of mumbles (Canis)

The light jingle of bells filled the silent shop as a young boy pushed open the door, inviting inside a gentle breeze. Canis didn’t lift his head when the boy knitting behind the counter welcomed him, and instead sought out a place in the shop far away from him. He didn’t want to be around people at the moment. He couldn’t be around people. Not with what he had in mind.

His trembling hands clenched into fists inside his coat pockets. The coat was light, but still odd as it wasn’t very chilly outside, and there was no reason he couldn’t go out with just a long-sleeved shirt.

There was an orange backpack slung over one shoulder. It was small and unassuming, but to Canis it felt like a bright neon light attached to his back. The sight of an adolescent carrying a bag around wasn’t a strange one, but it made his forehead sweat and his hands clammy.

He shuffled down the aisles without making a creak. He’d chosen a very poor place to shoplift. There were instrument repair tools, uninteresting books and a whole bunch of other things he couldn’t recognize. If he walked down a little farther, he’d find a rack of music CDs, but it was in the knitter boy’s plain view.

He rationalized with himself. He could always turn around; go back to his stepmother’s disapproving gaze, his father’s cold shoulder, his stepbrother’s tepid kindness. But the thought only made his stomach churn even more.

He started for the exit, sighing to himself. He was an indecisive coward who couldn’t grow a pair. His eyes flitted about the shop, and the corner of his lip twitched as he stopped in front of the CDs. His head was still lowered, and when the alternative crossed his mind, he made up his mind right there.

He reached for a CD and clutched it with both hands, eyes wide. He hadn’t done anything yet, but a foreboding wave of guilt was hanging over his head, waiting to crash down on top of his head. He couldn’t move. How did he look to the knitter boy? Could he see the guilt plain on his face, his agonized expression?

Time stood still as he stood erect, his feet nailed to the floor.

The plastic CD case was warm in his moist palms. The front cover was a disastrous splash of blue, pink and yellow, and had Canis been in his right mind, he’d have whipped the abomination at the floor and crushed it under his sneakers.

The wave of guilt came crashing down on him, for one long, agonizing second, all he could hear was the heavy throbbing of his heart in his ears. It was followed by the wail of police sirens, blinding flashes of red and blue, his father finally acknowledging his presence, but with the most disapproving gaze a parent could give to a child. It sent a frigid shiver down his spine, and he could have sworn goose bumps appeared on his arms, even though the heat beneath his outrageous attire was nearing unbearable.

He was ripped from his reverie when the sound of plastic clattering on the floor reached his ears, and he looked up with a start. The plastic CD case was at his feet, begging to be picked up. His eye twitched. There was no point in prolonging the moment.

He snatched the CD case with one hand, grabbing two more with his other, and ran for the exit. Shoving them into the orange bag, he pulled open the door, ringing the bells once more, and sprinted down the sidewalk.

Why? The question repeated itself over and over as he carried himself farther away from the instrument repair shop. He didn’t look back.

(OOC: It was Kidz Bop.)

The soles of his feet pounded into the concrete as he sped along. With a sickening twist in his stomach, he realized—with horror—the stupidity of his actions. Why did he just steal a couple of measly CDs? Well, there was no time to think about that now.

A voice called out to him from somewhere behind him. It was distant, but it was like shooting a bullet through his back.

Spurred on by fear, his pace accelerated. Sweat ran down the sides of his face. The thought to shrug off his coat crossed his mind, but before he could think about anything else, a hand tugged at the hem of his coat, pulling him backwards and to an abrupt stop.

It was the knitter boy, clearly exasperated, demanding to know what he was doing.

He didn’t say anything. He was plagued by thoughts of prison, the dilapidated walls, a hard bed, a broken toilet. . . .

I don’t know what I’m doing, he thought, but he pressed his lips together, determined to betray no words to the man. He didn’t know what to say, anyway. After a brief moment of silence, he spoke.

“Let go of me,” he said, wrenching free from the boy’s grasp. He extracted the orange bag from his shoulder and threw it at the knitter boy, taking a few steps backward. Could he really get away with an attempt to shoplift? He had to try. “I don’t want it anyway. Take it.”

It was only when he turned around to run when he realized what he had actually done. His things were in the bag—not just the stolen music CDs. His change of clothes, food, a bottle of water and bills that he’d stolen from his mother’s purse. How was he going to run away from home without that bag?

“Wait, no! Give me back the bag!” He whirled around on the balls of his feet, reaching for the bag.

Canis pulled away from the knitter boy, keeping a good amount of distance between the two of them. He was breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists in anger, both at the boy and at himself.

His eyes lingered on the orange bag, dangling in the air by the knitter boy’s long, slender arms. He wondered if he’d be able to leap and, gambling on his recent deftness, snatch the bag from the boy’s hands and run away. But he proved to be quick on his feet, and he’d only be caught once more, unless he managed to coalesce with the moving Los Angeles crowd.

“W-What does it matter to you?” he asked, stammering over his own words, uncertain of his own intentions. He couldn’t answer the boy’s questions, more because he didn’t know why he was doing what he was doing. He swallowed, swiping at the damp strands of brown hair that stuck to his face.

“I’ll give back the CDs. Just give me back the bag.” He tried to seem intimidating, to coat his words with malice and venom, like he always did. But, for some reason, it seemed that he was losing his touch. “Or I’ll take it from you. I swear it.” He gritted his teeth together, his rationality slipping away, hanging on by a single, flimsy thread.

Canis glared at the knitter boy with child-like stubbornness. “The cops don’t scare me,” he said, the knuckles on his fists white and trembling. And though his posture was feral, as though he were ready to pounce, he was taut with worry, with creases appearing on his forehead.

He dug his heels into the hard pavement, seriously considering an aerial assault. He needed that bag. All thoughts about wailing police sirens and flashing lights erased themselves from Canis’s mind, and his only goal was to get the bag back. If he were in a normal state of mind, he’d realize that he only needed to offer a smidgen of his dignity to get his bag back, but he was beyond caring. His resolve solidified, reflected in the dull, apathetic fire alight in his eyes.

“Just. Give. It. Back.” He took a heavy step toward the knitter boy, no longer afraid of the consequences. There was a nagging thought at the back of his mind that told him he could’ve gone through the transaction like a sane person, could’ve promised that he wouldn’t try to steal. But the knitter boy's condescending gaze struck a raw nerve deep inside him. Impatience flared throughout him.

He didn’t want to be reasonable. He wanted the bag. Now.

And then he lunged, with the agility that would’ve surprised a stalking cheetah, an outstretched arm reaching for the orange bag.

(OOC: CANIS Y U NO COMMON SENSE.)

The knitter boy stumbled backwards, dropping the bag in what Canis presumed to be mute surprise. The uninterested look never left his face.

Canis ground his teeth together, but it didn’t halt his movement. Snagging the bag, he wove around the knitter boy and back to where he had first stood. In just a few seconds, they were back where they had started, but Canis now had the orange bag slung over his narrow shoulders, breathing hard.

He watched as the knitter boy straightened and, standing erect, instructed him to not pull his stunt again. Canis didn’t need to be told that.

Swinging the bag from over his shoulder into the cradle of his hands, he unzipped the orange bag, grabbed the three abominable CDs that he never wanted in the first place, and tossed them to the knitter boy’s feet. His eyes never left his face, the flames flickering and settling. In a few more minutes, they’d be glazed over in absent thought once more.

Canis stared at the knitter boy for a few more seconds before shaking his head and turning around on his heels. “It’s a stupid store, anyway.” He began to walk.

And, without turning back, he transitioned into a steady jog. And then he was sprinting down the street, feeling small, and cold, and tired and humiliated.

But, little did the knitter boy know, he didn’t return home that day. Maybe he'd find out soon. On the news, perhaps, a report would be sent in, a report for a missing boy with mousy brown hair wearing a constant mask of apathy. Maybe the knitter boy would recognize him. But for now it would be filed at the back of his mind as a strange incident that had occurred on the 12th of May.

KYU-SIK MOON