Fools,the lot of them. Look at how they gape rudely at my pride and joy. The way they gasped and cooed over each of my masterpieces when I pull the silk covers from them disgusts me. Like just then actually. They always do this. When I request to showcase my latest works, they stumble over each other to get a place in the exhibition and flock to it, looking for 'culture' to up their knowledge, their personal taste or simply their cultural understanding. After all, merely one of my paintings is worth a huge amount, and my name is fairly large in the world of creative arts.
Their amateur gazes admire the scene that I have set in canvas and oil. It is a snowy landscape, one I painted as a teenager. I purposely painted the shadows blue, not grey, to represent day and night, and the snow falls forever, forever, as if time was frozen in that place. Slowly and silently the snow begins to fall.
These amateurs cannot truly appreciate these tiny details. Only he does. The awestruck looks on their faces and the praises they gave mean nothing to me. Only one person's opinion matters to me, and his alone. The crowd is becoming increasingly patient, and I am still searching for one face in particular.
An all too familiar face slips into the room, hoping to blend in with the crowd. However, his excellent disguise did nothing to hide his hungry eyes. As they roamed the canvas, they shone with that desire that only comes if you are planning to steal something you want, and enjoy the thought of doing so. It was at that moment I knew. I knew he would try to steal my artwprk from me, which was very foolish of him, but I would forgive him all the same. I knew that as well, and then we would begin the game again.
Only, as usual, I hoped that it wouldn't end, because it was only when my phantom thief is revelling in the chase do his eyes burn with an intense determination that I love. He was, and still is, my inspiration for each piece. Every time I advertise the time and place of my exhibition, I wait eagerly for that warning letter, signed so beautifully and elaborately, letting me know that he deems my creation worthy enough to be stolen by him.
Of course, being as flamboyant as he is, he also sends one to the police and local authorities to put them on edge and increase the security and therefore the challenge which in doing so adds to the thrill of the chase. Each chase brought new traps, new plans and new disguises which he got to play with. However, he knew that I could see through every single one of them.
The outcome is always the same; he would cause an uproar by sending a letter, then toy with the traps laid out for him then he would delicately take his prize and melt into the night. What I never understood was why he never sold them on the black market. He could have easily made a fortune, yet he kept everything he stole from me and took care of them as best he could. Another strange trait to add to his collection. It's one of his better ones, and it marks him as a good person, in his own way.
Sometimes, when it is late at night and I'm calmly drinking a glass of wine while reading over one of his letters, I wonder how it is possible to take such an interest in a person you've never spoken to face to face before. However, that thought is quickly banished and I finish my glass, wondering what he'll come up with next.