User blog:SodaCat/The Thief

takes place when west is around 14ish

The piercing glare of the sunlight was what awoke West.

The first thing he saw was an airplane, flying in the clear Chumash sky. He ran his hand through his hair, shaking out the dirt and pebbles mixed in with the crimson red. Something within the movement hurt him on his chest, but he shrugged it off. He probably had a lot of bruises right now.

Sitting up, he rested his forearms on his knees, looking around for his knife. Wouldn't be good to lose it, and he wasn't sure what type of evidence was on it anyway. He wasn't even that far from home--Los Santos was just a stone's throw away from Chumash--so it wouldn't take long for the cops to track it to him. Best keep it with him.

It wasn't far, just a couple feet away. He grabbed it, pocketed the cash that had spilled by it, and then took it to wash it off in the ocean. Might as well start on his way home; Callum would be waking up soon and asking about him so they could watch the Saturday morning cartoons together.

He flagged down a cab and mumbled his home address to the driver, ignoring any sort of attempt at conversation he initiated. Instead, West pulled out the wad of money he'd collected the previous night and counted it; it amounted to a mere $133. He swore, the locals started carrying less and less money every day. He couldn't wait till June, when all the tourists showed up; Augusts always sucked.

After a while, the cab pulled up to the Dream Tower building. He thanked the cabbie in the form of an annoyed grunt and tossed a ten at him before climbing out and making his way to the building, punching in the code for the door and brushing past the doorman boredly.

He swiped his card before the door to the apartment, stumbling into it and slamming the door behind him. Checking his watch, he saw it was only 6:40, so Callum wouldn't be up yet. A quick yet to the boy's room confirmed it; he was still tangled in his bedsheets. West smiled a little, glad his little brother had been safe at home in his own bed last night, before closing the door and retreating into his own bedroom.

To say it was a mess was the least. On the ground were dozens of shirts and jeans, paint brushes and spray paint cans, photographs and film strips. Stains of paint he'd knocked over rested all over the floor, and the walls overflowed with drawings and paintings and photographs pinned to them.

He jumped onto his bed, pushing through the red plaid comforter, and propped open the chest at the end of his bed with the key and throwing in the remainder of the cash into it. He slammed it shut and locked it, slumping back onto his bed and grabbing his guitar from beside the bed and starting to play a couple rifts on it.

He was startled by the door opening and his parents walking in. They stood, breathing heavily and glaring at him, his mother's arms on her hips, his father's arms crossed over his chest.

"Can't say I'm glad to see you," West greeted, turning his gaze back to his guitar.

"Get up. Start packing."

West looked at his father, a single eyebrow raised. "Excuse me?"

"You heard your father, West. Start packing, be done before eight."

West's green eyes shifted between his parents. Were they joking right now? "What the hell are you two talking about?" he inquired, irritated. He didn't have time to be kicked out again, he had shit to do, and he wanted to keep Callum company for his morning cartoons.

"We're talking about boarding school, West. Your boarding school. Starting today you are now a member of the Bullworth Academy alumni. Pack your bags, pack away all this... junk you've stowed away, and be in any of the cars by eight.

His father tossed a pamphlet for the place onto West's bed, and then lead his mother out of the room. Shocked, he reached over and took it in his hands, flipping through it. Bullworth Academy. What the hell? He didn't wanna go there. He wanted to stay here robbing the people of Los Santos of their cash.

Knowing they weren't fucking around--were they ever?--West grabbed the nearest duffel bag and opened his chest up once again. He started transferring the cash from the chest into the bag by fistfuls, his mind racing with questions.

When he finished packing, he'd filled two duffel bags and a backpack. He'd managed to store the majority of his clothes and art supplies into them, as well as all the cash in the chest, save for a couple hundred he'd hidden in Callum's bedroom. He'd been hoping to also manage a goodbye to the six-year-old, but he wasn't there.

As he walked by the living room, he saw Callum sitting, eyes trained on the television, face streaked with tears. West's mother sat beside him comforting him, but her voice hardened when West walked by. He knew in an instant that Callum had been instructed to not do so much as even glance at him.

Within ten minutes, West and his father were driving to the airport.