[ WP ] You are a professional pickpocket . You 've just picked someones pocket only to discover that the thing you have stolen is truly horrifying .

I saw him on the subway. It became apparent pretty early on that he had money. His phone, which he was looking at, was the newest model, his wallet was fancy, and his suit fit him perfectly. He held his wallet in the breast pocket of his blazer, which wasn ’ t ideal, but not a problem I couldn ’ t overcome. 
 
 
 I waited for the subway tunnel to get to the older parts, where there were more turns and bumps. As I waited, I planned my method of obtaining his most precious. He ’ s standing, which is why he ’ s a target. It ’ s easier to gain access to him. Around him was an old lady and a teenager absorbed in his video game, both clinging to the rails nearest them. Nothing to worry about. 
 
 As the bigger bumps came along, I fell forward and grabbed at him to right myself. Nobody likes being manhandled, but it ’ s a necessary violation for what I want. I quickly slipped my hand into his blazer, pinching the object between my pointer and middle fingers — it was heavy! — then tucked it inside my own jacket. I glanced up at the man, mumbled a pitiful “ sorry, ” and grabbed a rail on the opposite side of the car. It took all of five seconds to complete. I could feel his gaze on me, but after a moment he went back to his phone. 
 
 I exited the subway on the next stop and made my way above ground. Walking down the street, confident that I had made my getaway, I pulled his wallet out of my jacket. But when I looked down, what I held in my hand wasn ’ t a wallet. It was a leatherbound pouch of some sort, with a zipper circling three of the four sides. I unzipped it, and I saw a tool set. Immediately I recognized these. They weren ’ t for fixing a cabinet or hanging a few pictures. These were torture tools. A small set of needlenose pliers, a tongue gripper, a few small knives, some needles, and other various things that I didn ’ t understand the purpose for. Curious, I flipped over the pouch, and what I saw was more terrifying than the idea of what the tools implied. What I saw was a small insignia branded into the leather in the shape of a man with a snake protruding from his mouth. 
 
 You may be thinking, Derek, what ’ s the matter? Why didn ’ t you just toss them away? Why didn ’ t you get rid of them and all the evidence that you ever had them? Why not report it to the police? Why does the insignia even matter? It ’ s because I recognized these tools not just for what they are, but I recognized the owner. The man I robbed wasn ’ t some random subway rider. He is a murderer. He is the same man that kidnapped and killed my little sister three years ago. The insignia on the pouch matched perfectly the one that was found on her body. 
 
 By this time I was standing in the middle of the sidewalk with a stupid look on my face examining a murder kit, and I realized it would be a good idea to get out of sight. I quickly slipped the pouch back into my jacket and hoofed it home, head down and hood up. 
 
 When I got home, the house was quiet. It was past dinner, and my parents were most likely already in bed, watching their late night TV show. I went upstairs to my room and locked the door. Taking a deep breath, I pulled my hood off and leaned against the closed door. I had seen my sister ’ s killer. As far as I know I ’ m the only one who has, without getting killed shortly after. I sank to the floor trying to wrap my head around it. I pulled the pouch back out of my jacket and held it in my palm, almost reverently, now realizing what I had in my possession. 
 
 “ I believe those are mine. ” 
 
 “ FUCK! ” My feet launched me back into the door, but I just ended up throwing myself upside down. As I regained my composure, I saw a man sitting in my desk chair in the corner of the room. How had I not noticed him before? 
 
 “ Jumpy little prick aren ’ t you? Your sister was the same way. All it took was a well placed ‘ boo! ’ ” As he said it he mockingly threw his hands up, then chuckled to himself. 
 
 I ’ m caught in the headlights. My mouth opens and I hear my voice stammer something out, but I don ’ t even know what it ’ s supposed to be. I think my brain is just trying to fill the silence. 
 
 “ Well, I ’ d tell you to hand them over and nobody gets hurt, but I think you ’ re smarter than that. ” The man stares at me, still lounging in my chair. Then, I can see the silhouette of a grin crawl up his face in the moonlight. “ Let ’ s play. ” 
 
 My brain decides to catch up with what ’ s happening, and I regain control of my body. I jump up to my feet, manage to unlock my door, and sprint down the hall. 
 
 “ Dad! Mom! ” I ’ m screaming louder than I had intended. 
 
 I burst through their door, and I am immediately hit in the face with red. There ’ s red fucking everywhere. Then on the bed, among the piles of torn blankets and smashed glass, I see my parents ’ bodies lying motionless. In retrospect, I should have seen it coming. But even if I expected it, I don ’ t think it would have helped. For a moment, I ’ m paralyzed with the option of fighting or running, but then I think that the indecision is worse than picking the wrong option, so I run back down the hall towards the stairs. 
 
 As I ’ m running, an arm appears out of the shadows and catches me in the throat. I fall on my back, gasping for air, and the man steps over my chest, towering over me, practically reaching the sky. The grin is still on his face. 
 
 “ I do love it so very much when they struggle, ” he says, whether to me or himself I ’ m not sure. “ What do you say we get to work? ”
