Echoes of Regret: A prose piece.
I reached into the pocket of a wealthy man, hoping to seize a fraction of what he flaunts in front of me.
I sought gold, silver, and meager change—taking only what he wouldn't notice.
A simple and seemingly effortless plan.
A chilling hand seized mine before I could delve to the depths of his pocket.
The wealthy man must also be a sorcerer.
"Why?" he inquired. I remained silent.
He severed my thieving hand.
I didn't shed a tear. I did not flee.
My thoughts turned to Angella and our children.
I had condemned them a life of disgrace.
It wasn't greed that drove me to steal. Nor was it envy.
I stole because I could no longer bear witnessing the furrows etched on Angella's face.
I stole because I longed for our youngest to feel the softness of a real ball.
I stole because I was weary of saving next to nothing.
It wasn't right to trespass upon what wasn't mine.
It wasn't right that I believed I had no other choice.
Angella shrieked upon witnessing my severed hand. She and the children now reside with her sister.
They tremble at the notion of living with a thief, who is now also a cripple.
