Shiny Things

When I was growing up, that is, in my early childhood, I considered myself an odd person. But odd in the most peculiar sense. I liked shiny stuff that, in my humble childish opinion, were most definitely some kind of sorcery. But never had it occurred to me to ask my parents for them, because I would know in advance the reasons and reasons why that was such a bad investment. I would look at the other girls getting their shiny pieces of magic, and I would feel their happiness, and it would make me feel good. So good. Want to hear the odd part? It did not make me feel good because I am such a good person. No. It would make me feel good because I felt I had the advantage. I had nothing to lose, unlike them who would cry their eyes out upon the sudden disappearance of their precious possession. Just one moment of distraction, and there you have it ladies and gentlemen – Niagara Falls. Fresh out of the tap. So, I decided not to indispose myself in such a manner, that would only bring my enemies advantage. No sir. The more you have the more you have to lose.

But I did have my little mind games with those brats. And who could possibly resist taking those shiny things away just to see them look around in despair, and their poor parents replacing the old with the new. Over and over again. But it wasn’t a theft. I didn’t keep a single one for myself. No sir. I threw them away into the sewers, because I thought that even shit deserved to see something shiny now and then. However, a very clever teacher in our school thought it was me (the reasons of her suspicion were not based on the fact that I may be conducting a social experiment, but on a pure 12-year old jealousy…barbaric), so she was sent to monitor me and report any kind of suspicious behavior on my part. And eventually I was caught. And brought into the principal’s office. And my parents came. And then we left. And then the yelling started.

My father never actually stopped. That was how we communicated. He couldn’t care less about my social experiment. My mother was no better. You did it once, you would do it again. On and on. Every single day. And on that final day, something miraculous happened. My father’s wallet was gone. That was something that had never happened before. He ran. I ran. He yelled. I yelled. He hit. I froze. He cried. I ran. Straight into my room. With only one odd thought – I was happy. I was their shiny thing. They have lost me and now they are crying, like spoiled brats. My mother came home late that night carrying my father’s wallet. My bedroom window was opened. I took away their shiny thing.