freya caldaine, six {cb/fin}

freya caldain

The rich call you a sinner, but the others think you’re a saint. You don't think stealing from the rich calls for imprisonment. They have enough to share, but they don't. You wonder if their parents taught them manners. 

"If you share, then good things will come to you."

You were brought up on a couple grains of rice and not enough water. Rationing and sharing was practically second nature to you. But ever since your mother fell down and her heart stopped beating, you stole from the rich to have the life your mother wanted you to have. You always obeyed your mother's wishes as she was the one who fed you when you couldn’t do it yourself, and rocked you to sleep when the night was tough. You think you owe her from the years she took care of you. She gave you everything you have, your chocolate eyes and your curly hair. She made you, you. You thank her each night for everything she has done for you.

So, until the men in white come knocking, you'll be taking the treasures of the rich with pride and joy, all while thinking of your mother, the person who gave you life. You'll whisper good night to the mother who became a ghost, in a place they call an orphanage, for kids who have nowhere to go.

"Night mommy, love you."