Day 146 – The Victim

Word count: 766

 

 

 

Woman in her forties, long blond hair, dyed; tints of grey and a wrinkled face. Long Macintosh coat and a Vuitton handbag, this girl knows the fools from the gold. She’s gliding through the shop. Ground floor, make up and perfume. She pats on a layer of anti-aging cream, sprinkles a dash of her favourite l’eau de parfum on her heavily moisturized skin. She smells rich, not in money, but in experience. This bronzed woman has been places, has seen the world – perhaps only from a five star hotel room window and a few bodyguards in the most antagonistic places.

The way she held herself told the world that she had only one child, a boy. There was no need to worry over him – the bags under her eyes were neatly wiped into inexistence by her daily tinted moisturizer. Though despite her money, she has not bought anything yet.

Level one. Lingerie. The posh shop sells dull and unexciting clothes and they are received with an uninterested glare. She siphons through some bras, looking for her size. It’s black, simple, basic. Nothing-to-see-here kind of thing.

I’ve been waiting for someone like her all day. This shop is teeming with the rich, but rarely the bored. It is easy to take advantage of the bored; they  tend not to notice very much when they walk around in day dreaming daze.

She moves on quickly from the lingerie to the shoes. It is clear she cares more for them than she does for perfume by the way she seems to skip towards them. She is wearing a black pair of low heels herself. She is an already tall woman and these compliment her figure.

I follow her. She is picking up shoes that are too young for her; high heeled platform peep-toes, bright colours, floral and whacky. Her bag is open, as I suspected, though I am still not sure when to strike. She has yet to notice me and I hope that she never does. I am the pale nude brogues that she looked over in favour of the deep purple suede.

When her footwear fling is over, she traverses to the escalator. Her mobile starts to ring, but she does not recognize it as her own. By the top, the caller has gone to voicemail and she is already disappearing off into the designer dress section. I get on the escalator now.

As I come to the top, I can see her sifting through another rack of clothes too young for her. I wish she would look at the mirror behind her, perhaps she might see what I see. At the same time, I don’t know what I am so concerned. I am here to steal her purse and take all her money.

At last I spy my chance. She has picked up a short mandarin coloured dress and is heading for the changing rooms. I grab the nearest garment and follow her right in. She is in the cubicle next to me. I can hear her rattling around as she gets undressed. From the sound of it she is wearing a lot of clothes.

Each cubicle is only separated by a thin wall and a curtain acting as a doorway. There is a five in gap between the floor and the curtain, ample room to fit a hand. I have already noticed, as I went in, that she has placed her handbag by the curtain. The contents are spilling out, screaming to be stolen.

I wait around with the garment in my hand – what is it anyway? It is putrid green and very unorthodox. It reminds me of those catwalk clothes than never ever reach the shops. After a suitable amount of time, I draw back the curtain and step out of the cubicle. I feign a trip and drop the horrific green garment to the floor, right on top the exposed part of her bag. She does not even seem to notice what has happened as I apologise profusely to thin air. As pick myself up, I pick up the green item and pick up her purse as well, which was sticking awkwardly out of her handbag. I have it tucked under my arm and I give a daft smile to the retail lady at the end of the corridor.

“Thanks, I’ll take it, perfect fit!” I smile and leave.

I have the purse now and I’m walking out of the store, having dumped the offending green article somewhere on the second floor, but all I can seem to think of is if she

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~ by S.G. Mark on March 1, 2012.

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