There are very bad people in the world. People that are ruthless, deceptive, thieving, cheating. Ones that throw others down and feel the crunch of bone beneath their shoes, and ones that claw and fight and take up weapons to use against innocents. Not much has changed since the dawn of time. The era of man.
Even tucked away into the deepest of shadows, the darkest of corners, the darkness of man could be felt and it was food.
There is also darkness that is fleeting in every form of life, one that flutters in the barely conscious mornings, and ones that beat with erratic hearts as his did now. He did not have to hear the yelling behind him and did not care to. With every footfall slamming against pavement, he had shoved his way through people, breath heaving, eyes watering, choking.
He is a thief, and he has done it his whole life. He has taken what he has needed, and he has taken what he hasn't needed. He takes because he can, and no one will tell him he cannot. He feels the rush with each heist, the stakes ever growing higher, and the euphoria of control.
He can hear the slickness of the cement, the remaining drops of rain squeezed dry from the dark clouds above, and he squeezes the bag closer to his chest. Pay day.
He sees the familiar vehicle waiting for him, tail-lights bright and beckoning like lighthouses, and the puff of pollution exiting the exhaust pipe. He grins because he knows the store owner ran out of steam long ago, and the police can't catch him. No one can.
He throws the passenger door open and throws the bag inside. The driver moves immediately, and there's the squealing of tires against the soaked streets, exerting great effort to gain traction to move.
His accomplice laughs, the stench of cigarettes and booze flooding the interior. They are young, they are reckless. Tonight, they could do anything they wanted. They would be kings.
He curls a fist around wads of cash within the bag, counting through it. He imagines what it could buy them. They are both intoxicated by mindless self indulgence.
They see lights and expensive cars, not the car pulling out to complete its turn.
They hear music beating into their ears, not the sickening crunch of metal against metal.
They taste alcohol, not the blood they've spilled.
When the moment freezes long enough for them to understand, he sees it then. They are intact, they are still alive and conscious. The other car is not so lucky. It is no longer a recognizable structure, it is shapes and bent metal, cracked glass and pieces obliterated,
It is a mother and her little girl, broken and red.
He stares as long as he is able to, before his partner curses, backing the car away from the wreckage and speeding off into darkness. They leave the mess behind. It is only a second that he can see her eyes and the light fading out of them, but he will see it for all eternity.
He is a thief and he steals. He steals because he can. He tells himself he is not a bad person, but even the liquor tastes of lies.
He is holed up at a motel outside of town, and the name he reads in the paper is one he utters on his death bed.
Bakura.