Byte-sized stories

Going down into the basement, I opened the door and was surprised again by how everything looked. I let out a sigh of relief. Reality was different from the image in my mind.

All the contents of the once messy room were stacked in neat piles and boxes, unlike how the thieves had left it, everything upside down, trampled. Now everything was organized on shelves, as if life were not a tangled thread of yarn played with by kittens.

And then I started getting angry.

What an illusion. Trinkets of life in order, unlike how they were gathered, along invisible threads of events, energy, and time. As if it had all ever been neat. As if anything alive could be pristine.

My father helped me see that illusion for a moment, when he reorganized what was left and placed everything onto shelves. And now here it was, a life in boxes.

I had to laugh at that. As if I had ever been neat. As if my life had ever fit into anything as orderly as shelves and labels. That was never me.

I smiled and started browsing.

I hoped to find something of value, but instead I discovered that even my external hard drive was gone, with its silly childhood photos and embarrassing outfits.

Then I found batteries.

Honestly, if they had wanted to be truly annoying, they should have taken those too. Imagine running out, going down to the basement to get more, and finding nothing.

Then postcards. Printed photos. Birthday wishes, company parties, networking events, Valentine’s Days.

Then my long lost national health insurance card, educational documents, car contracts. It’s almost funny how much worse this could have been if they had taken those as well.

Instead, they took my perfume collection, the best tools my father had given me, and handbags that looked presentable.

Funny enough, my most expensive handbag wasn’t stolen. It looks like a simple, nondescript black bag. I remember opening the storage room and seeing it lying on top of a pile of trash.

I laughed.

As if it were worth nothing.

And then it hit me, how ridiculous it is that the most valuable things can mean nothing to others. Value is not obvious. It has to be recognised, and often it isn’t.

My dog’s first toy was untouched. My favourite clothes, unharmed. My framed family photos, still pristine. The batteries, of course.. Vitamins, brandy, shoes. Crystal glasses from my mother.

Too complicated to steal, I suppose.

If they had put as much effort into working as they had into stripping me of what they valued, they could probably be rich.

Instead, they chose to break into a basement at 2 a.m. and sort through someone else’s life within minutes, selecting only what mattered to them with impressive efficiency.

What a strange use of effort. Almost talent.

Who has that kind of energy, that kind of focus, at that hour? With that same drive, they could have done it for money instead.

But perhaps something would be missing.

The adrenaline.

But.. in the end, they didn’t take what was valuable.

They only took what they understood.