Intruder 

By 

Patrick O'Malley 

I guess it started with my neighbors—young junkie couple, always screaming and throwing things at each other. I never said much to them in passing. What did get my attention was their habit of never fully closing the door to their apartment whenever they'd leave. 

More often than not, I'd come home to that thin sliver of darkness where the entrance next door wouldn't fully close, staring at me. It actually felt like the small opening was daring me to see what was inside. All of that yelling I'd overheard, was my neighbor's co-op as wretched as I envisioned it? 

I can't explain it, I don't think any rational mind could. All I know, is that one fateful day while my neighbors were out, I let my morbid curiosity get the better of me. I tuned out the thought of consequences, pushed my neighbor's slightly ajar door all the way open and stepped into their empty home. 

My heart was racing. I knew I was committing a serious crime. Any second now I expected my neighbors to come walking back in and I'd be dead meat.  

Worst of all, the inside of their apartment was a total letdown. No art or any pictures on the wall, not even a sleazy pinup. The only thing to catch me eye was a ceramic ying-yang ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts that lay on the granite coffee table by the small flat-screen television. 

Trashy, but hardly the crack den I had imagined.  

For the next few minutes I tip-toed quietly around the apartment like a ghost. The kitchen was full of crumbs on the tiles and a sink piled with dirty dishes. The bedroom was easily the messiest, wrinkled clothes tossed everywhere with a bed that looked like the sheets hadn't been changed in years.  

Content, I peeked out through the window blinds to see if anyone was nearby. With the coast clear, I carefully slinked out of the apartment. Before returning to my own home, I made sure to leave the door slightly open just the way I found it. 

My neighbors never said anything to me. 

They probably had bigger things on their mind. Not too long after my break-in, the couple ended up getting evicted. The object of my curiosity was gone but the thrill brought on by the suspense of my intrusion stayed with me. All I could think about was how alive I'd felt sneaking around in someone's private property and getting away with it too.  

I suppose that was when things started getting out of hand.  

You've got to understand. I had absolutely zero intention of ever hurting or stealing from anyone. It was like how shoplifters get off to the thrill of not getting caught stealing. 

I'll spare you the lengthy details and cut to the chase. After some lock-pick training here, preparation there and blah blah blah, I snuck into four more houses since my first time and still haven't been caught. 

The hardest part is scoping out exactly which home to invade.  

It takes at least a week of scoping before I decide which house is the lucky one. By then I can tell whether or not the owner has a dog. One of my rules is absolutely no dogs, can't have those damn things barking or ripping me to shreds.  

In my opinion, the best time to break into homes is the middle of the day. Most people are at work and unlikely to suspect that their wonderful middle-class home in their nice quiet suburb would ever be the target of some weirdo like me. Even better, the home's I've hit are stingy on surveillance cameras. Why bother spending all that tax payer dough when you're living in a town where the biggest crime is teenagers stealing their parents' Xanax.  

You'd think learning which neighborhoods had surveillance cameras installed would be a challenge, right? Literally all I had to do was Google each of the neighborhoods that I spied on to see which properties had cameras installed. Turns out, homeowners that do have cameras have to have them registered with the county.  

Three more times I've crossed the line and toured alone through stranger's homes. Three more times and I still haven't once come close to being caught. With good reason, too. I wasn't sloppy. I always wore gloves. I never left any trace that'd lead to suspicion or reports of any mysterious break-ins on the news. 

Look, I'm not delusional, I'm perfectly aware that what I'm doing isn't right. Right before I picked the lock of each of the past three homes I told myself that this is the last one. Better to stop while I'm ahead. I can only be lucky for so long before the homeowner comes back and I can't escape or the police stop being incompetent.  

The promise never lasts, and what of it? It's a victimless crime. Is it my fault people aren't careful locking their doors? Like I said, its almost suspiciously easy to duck in and out undetected. No body, no crime.  

Sometimes I think maybe I want to be caught. Maybe subconsciously I want someone to catch me, frozen in the ray of their flashlight. I'd stutter out some pathetic excuse before attempting to flee and falling on my face. Then I'd finally have someone tell me that what I'm doing is wrong and I need to stop right now.  

Of course, that'll never happen. I'm too good for them to catch. I'm an artist.  

Each time I walk around, opening and closing drawers, seeing what they have in the medicine cabinet, my chest feels like a beehive. There's a swarm of insects buzzing around stinging and biting my insides. It's not quite anxiety, not quite euphoria but it gets me to where I need to be. 

I've got a lot of problems.  

That brings me to what happened at house number five. I'd spent the past week spying on this place as per my usual routine. Small two story canary-yellow home sitting on the curve of a cul-de-sac.  

From what I'd gathered, the owner's a young guy, glasses with some padding in the middle. No way he's older than thirty. He heads out to work every weekday morning and comes back in the evening. No dogs no security that I can see not even from the older couple living next door. 

Basically, he was perfect.  

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