“I’m telling you, I’m packing this shit up.”

“You can’t quit now; you’re hooked and you fucking know it, mate.”

There was a rustling, and I was slightly jostled.

“Last one.” He said with finality.

Stupid arse. Both he, the older bloke and I know that he seriously can’t drop this. His lives for the thrill. The rush of excitement he gets each time. And anyway; it was in his blood. He just happened to be the most recent of sons in a long line of sons that had been in the gang ‘The Flits’.

The life of a thief.

Though I really can’t blame him for wanting to stop. This isn’t exactly the way he had seen himself living at twenty-two. I know it. I’ve heard what he puts in that ‘journal’ (psh – it’s a diary. He even starts it with ‘Dear Diary’.). He talks whilst he’s writing. Nope. How he really saw himself five years prior was partying hard at his frat house, studying the History of Fashion.

Yes. You read that correctly.

I blame his mother.

We’ve got to the darkened house, now. Of course, I can’t see a bloody thing, but seeming as it’s as black as pitch in here, I’m guessing it is.

He inches closer to the door; I know this because he’s a damn predictable and I’ve been out with him a couple of times before now. I can almost see him with his two hands clasped together in a ‘gun’ position, humming the ‘Mission Impossible’ theme tune.

It’s pitiful, really. Poor guy living in his fantasies way too much.

But, what can I do about it?

I’m just his trusty pocket-knife.

Prompt 328: Write from the point of view of the knife inside a thief’s pocket.