Hello everyone. My name is Felix Beyern. I am twenty-nine years young. I stand at six foot two inches tall and weigh a comfortable hundred and eighty pounds. I''m quite pale of complexion and my hair is black as a moonless night. My eyes, strangely enough, are blue. A mixture that my wife says suits me well. Yes, my wife. I am happily married. Have been for the past four years. She''s the light of my life and I honestly don''t know what I have done to deserve her. Aside being a constant bother to her. You see, she''s arrested me countless times. She works as a police officer you see. It was how we met. I had stolen some things from a shop, again I might add and she showed up for the arrest. She was the first one to actually try and understand me, rather than blindly accuse me. I can''t help stealing. I have tried to stop the urge, but it is vital to me, similar to how a drug addict or an alcoholic can''t quit. My addiction is worse, however. It is hardwired into my brain. You see, I am a kleptomaniac. For those not aware of what that means, it is a mental illness that constantly compels me to take things that aren''t mine. Not because I want the items themselves, no, I do it because it temporarily assuages a raging hunger that lurks within me. It is not a funny thing. It is a vile addiction, made worse because there are very few of us. People can understand an alcoholic or a junkie. A kleptomaniac, however, cannot rely on people''s sympathy. Luckily enough there are some people who know me well enough to look beyond what I can''t control and have accepted me for who I am. Like the shop owner in front of me. He''s currently patting me down for little items he know I stole from his shop, but he does it with a smile. I''m a frequent customer of his. His shop sells carnival and magician props. Costumes, crowns, fake jewellery for children, those things. He can look past my habit and doesn''t mind. He''s one of the very, very few.


    Ever since I was young, I had the urge to just take things. Small things. Shiny things. Sometimes bigger things, but not often. It is hard to do so unnoticed and for some reason I just don''t like them that much. My parents did not understand. They kept hitting me whenever I stole something, probably hoping I would stop. It didn''t work. Kleptomania doesn''t work that way. It didn''t stop the beatings either. I often appeared at school, covered in bruises. When my father finally crossed the line and broke several of my bones, a teacher interfered and had me removed from them. That teacher was the only one who had an inkling about my problem. For the rest, my school life had been similar to that at home. I would try to avoid people as much as possible and stay clear from anywhere that had loose items. I once hid in the school''s bell tower and had to go to the principal the next day because I had somehow managed to unscrew the small hand of the clock. Unseen too. I remember him being too impressed to be properly angry.


    My sports teacher saw some value in me, for a time. He didn''t see me constantly nicking things as a purely bad thing. I was fast and nimble with my fingers and he saw that as a skill very useful in archery. He was right. I might have made it quite far there, if he hadn''t driven me to the contest himself. You see, on the way there, I nicked his wallet. He lost self-control and beat me to the point I couldn''t walk anymore.


    Maybe I''m going all wrong about this. Have any of you ever had an irresistible urge? Gone for a day without water and you''re absolutely parched? Then you see a little bottle. It doesn''t belong to you and you know it''s wrong to take it. But you''re so impossibly thirsty that you can''t resist? That is how I feel all the time. I have this urge and I cannot get rid of it and for some reason it is incredibly difficult for me to return what I have stolen afterwards. It is easier nowadays, thanks to my wife''s guidance, but I still struggle.


    Anyway, school life aside, I somehow finished my education in an institution not too dissimilar to an orphanage. I quite liked it there. The people in charge just locked me up in a room where I couldn''t do any harm. Some people might consider it cruel, but those people have never received daily beatings to the point they struggled to remember what colour their skin was supposed to be. Exaggerated? Maybe. It helps to get the point across, however. Keep that in mind when I tell this tale. When you''re locked on your own for a long enough period of time, you start to draw stories in your head and paper. And no story is retold the same way it happened. Much akin to how a tiny fish ends up the size of a whale, so turns an originally sad tale into a tearjerker, or a minor act of kindness into a heroic ballad.


    Back to the subject at hand. I finished high school with decent grades, and an utter lack of social grace caused my prolonged forced abstinence from social interaction. The people from the institution were incredibly kind and arranged a small apartment for me that I could rent while I went job hunting. That turned out to be slightly more complicated than I had hoped. While getting beaten was a thing of the past, few employers are willing to hire someone who bluntly states that they will likely steal small items. After a week I gave up on finding a job that matched what I wanted and started scraping the barrel. Anything would be fine. I solicited and sent out CV''s by the dozens, but the word ''kleptomaniac'' has an effect akin to that of the bells people afflicted with leprosy used in the middle ages. Some people expressed some interest in me, seeing that I was incredibly driven to find anything that would allow me to pay my bills, but strangely enough jewellery sellers were never a part of that group. Regardless of whether they had an initial interest or not, the answer was always no.


    Eventually I managed to either exhaust my own bad luck, or my future employer simply had a very bad day and I managed to find a job as a cargo loader in the harbour. I loved it. I was all alone in the warehouse except for a grumpy old overseer who locked himself in his office and occasionally shouted at me. Everything I had to load or unload was so massive I couldn''t dream of stealing it, with the exception of the company pens, which nobody minded and were absolutely perfect to fill my constant cravings. I still have a few dozen of those at home. For the first two weeks, my life was perfect. I had a job, I had a home, I wasn''t being yelled at, at least not a lot and I wasn''t being beaten.


    Then, because all good things must come to an end, the institution stopped delivering groceries to my place. As you can probably guess, that meant I had to do my own shopping from now on. And that is how I came to be very well known to the police.


    I tried to avoid it. I honestly did everything in my power to keep it from happening again. It wasn''t my first time battling it. Numerous beatings hadn''t driven it out of me. A burning desire to keep my job hadn''t kept my hands in my own pockets. It was a fight I was destined to lose no matter how much resistance I put up. So I talked to the owner of the first grocery shop I found. I explained my circumstances and asked him to understand, that I did it with no ill will and that if I were caught I would gladly return all the items without problem and those that couldn''t be returned I would pay for. The man called me a thief and had me thrown out by security. Quite uncivil really. I hadn''t even nicked anything. Of course, when they violently threw me out I felt no reason to hold back anymore and I left the place behind with as much dignity as I could muster. And three security badges in my pocket. I destroyed those afterwards. I''m a kleptomaniac, not a criminal.


    Onto another shop I went. While none of the owners after that were as vile and vicious as the first one, I always received the request to not return to their shop. Some of them were more understanding than others and those always asked reluctantly, feeling sorry for me. I was grateful for that. I wasn''t used to people being kind.


    For the first week of my employment, I had to resort to walking through the drive-through of the local McDonalds for food. Whenever I returned the next day, I would also take the name tag of the person who manned it the day before with me, or whatever other item I had taken. If they asked me about it, I would return it. Otherwise I would keep it. The young people made a game out of it, trying to catch me. I must admit, they were good at it. At one point they kept such a tight watch on their name tags that it became impossible for me. Of course, I hadn''t gone more than a few dozen yards before one of them came after me shouting at me to return their wireless card reader. A lot of laughs were had about that. They didn''t understand, but they tolerated. For them, it was a way to relieve them from the tedium of their working day. For me, it was a form of heaven I don''t expect many to understand.


    Eventually, driven by my desire to eat something other than fast food, I stopped mentioning my illness and simply shopped. I never stole much and sometimes even managed to put it back the day after if the people were friendly. Most grocery stores and supermarkets lacked any proper form of security and those barriers at the end only work for larger, more expensive items. Of course, it all went wrong when I needed clothes. For some utterly retarded reason, I made a habit of stealing not only socks, earrings and underwear, but also the damned safety pins. Most officers were quite calm and polite to me, seeing that I offered no resistance and only rarely did they fine me after I told them about my problem. After all, they reasoned, no sane criminal would steal socks and safety pins.


    Then came officer... Let''s call him Bobby for the sake of anonymity. He was a piece of work. Probably had a bad day. I hadn''t taken much. Just a scarf. An ugly one at that. Really, I was doing the shop a favour disposing of that thing. You know the sort? Far too thick and painted in every colour of the rainbow and then some? Well, officer Bobby took great offense in me pulling him away from doughnut eating duty and decided that all the world''s problems started and ended with me. I was sitting there, calm as always, it wasn''t my first time after all and he just showed up, stormed in and pulled me up by my neck. Not my clothes. My actual neck.


    Honestly the man should be lucky I didn''t kill him. Memories of my past came flooding back. The image and pain of countless beatings filled my mind to the point I could see nothing but my father beating the crap out of me and I could hear nothing but the rush of blood in my ears. But I was no longer the small, young boy who couldn''t defend himself. I was a full grown adult, hardened by long hours of hard work picking up heavy crates and putting them back down. Chubby Bobby, tall and strong he may have been, had not expected a mad man fighting for his life. In blind panic, I broke both his nose and his arm, before hiding behind the couch screaming that I was sorry, Dad.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Luckily enough for me, Bobby wasn''t very liked and after my history was checked and the institution I had grown up in was called, I was let off with the advice to seek counselling. The mediator from the institution kindly informed them that I had been on that waiting list ever since I entered their care well over a decade ago and then rather unkindly told them where they could shove it. She had always been very protective of her charges and seemed rather unprofessionally proud that I had thoroughly trashed an agent of the law.


    The police decided to change their tactic and since they knew by now that I would get into trouble sooner rather than later, but was pretty much a no-risk scenario, they assigned a new rookie to my case—a highly idealistic woman—who had got herself into a verbal fight with her superiors about morals and ethics a bit too often for their liking.


    Ladies and gentlemen, enter the stage, my wife.


    The first time we met, she pointed her gun at me, told me to get down on the ground and cuffed me while her knee was in my back. Apparently all they had told her was that I was a recurring problem, an incorrigible criminal and the man who had gone on a rampage and put officer Bobby into the hospital because I was simply that much of a violent bastard.


    Even the shopkeeper thought it was too much and told her that I hadn''t stolen anything valuable and that I hadn''t been running away, merely walking to the toilet, when she had intercepted me. A long explanation made short later, the fierce and furious police officer was transformed into a very apologetic woman, who didn''t know about the situation and was really sorry for what she did. I will be honest, I forgave her as quickly as I could and made my retreat with so much haste that even Usain Bolt would have complimented me. That woman had scared the hell out of me.


    I met her again the next day.


    After a month of playing tic tac toe with me visiting different shops to let the situation cool down again and to avoid creating a single, thoroughly enraged shopkeeper, she and I had got slightly more comfortable around each other. Which is to say, I no longer had the urge to run for my life at the sight of her and she had started joking around with me. What came as a real surprise, however, was when she told me that she had started reading up on kleptomania. She then said a line that I will never let her live down for as long as I draw breath. Her exact words were: ''It makes me kind of sad that you were born that way. Here I was thinking you just kept nicking stuff to see me.''


    For the first time in my life, someone stole something from me. It may be childish, it may be cheesy, but human compassion was a rarity in my life. Tolerance and pity were the strongest emotions that people felt towards me. But when she treated me like another human being? She stole my heart. I then pronounced the line that she will never let me live down. Once again, word for word, I responded with: ''Well then, if you''re not against it, how about I steal some more of your time. Seven pm, at Brammer''s?'' And just like that, as I was removing seven candy bars and a pack of tic-tacs out of my pocket, our first date was planned.


    We were quite a strange pair. I kept stealing things and every other minute she patted me down and made me put it back. It must have looked ridiculous, but she didn''t care. It was only until way later that I would discover that she disliked social stigma and enjoyed having an easy excuse to break the rules around me. Sure, it looked improper, but to hell with what others thought. We grew closer and before I knew it, she moved into my apartment and we started living together. It greatly improved both of our lives. For one, her work load diminished because she did all the shopping, meaning she didn''t have to rush out of her office twice a week because I got caught again. For another, we did make a good pair, strangely enough.


    After a few more months of living like that, I went to the bank while being incredibly nervous and left with the majority of my savings, two name tags and half a dozen pens. And a key, which I promptly returned when I realised what it was, claiming it had fallen onto the ground. Then I really steeled myself and went into a jewellery shop. The sight of the man''s face when I asked him to tie my hands up before anything else is a memory I deeply cherish. He was an elderly gentleman who, while blissfully unaware about the nature of my affliction, was incredibly kind and helpful and after hearing me out, was more than willing to oblige me. Under his guidance and watchful eye, I managed to pick out a pair of rings. I even left that shop without having taken anything, so smitten was I with them.


    I then set up the scenario. Sort of borrowing a pair of handcuffs from her, I went to the police station and contrived a plot with them. While most of her superiors didn''t really like her, all of them were more than willing to participate in my plan, provided I was willing to film it and hand them a copy. I debated that internally for about ten seconds before giving in. Then I went to my boss, the real boss, not the cranky supervisor and asked him for aid. He was more than willing to give it and to my surprise even my supervisor immediately hopped aboard. It turned out that the man was simply born cranky, but actually liked me because I did my work correctly, unlike the previous dozen twats with two left hands that couldn''t lift a box if their life depended on it, to quote him. He did smile like a devil when he said that some company pens were a small price to pay for having to correct fewer errors in the paperwork. I was rather embarrassed at that. But regardless, the plan was hatched and promptly set in motion.


    My boss called the police, after having received word that my soon-to-be-wife was in the right location and absolutely bellowed through the phone that he had it up to here with me constantly stealing things and wanted me arrested, locked away and if he had anything to say about it, quartered and burned at the stake as well. An exasperated woman rushed over to the warehouse, breaking several traffic laws in the process. She entered the warehouse and saw my supervisor and boss yelling at me, while I was hidden behind a pair of crates. When she came closer with an expression that vacillated between anger directed both at me and my bosses and dread, she found me on one knee, ring held out in front of me.


    Her reaction was to slap me full force, then hug and kiss me.


    During the ceremony I was slapped again when she discovered I had somehow sneaked the ring off her finger after having put it on less than ten minutes earlier.


    My life had made a turn for the better. I had a loving wife, a job that paid my bills and my interactions with the police and shop keepers were kept to an absolute minimum. I had a secure and happy base. But for those of you who are familiar with the pyramid of Maslow, that meant another layer of worry had been opened. As the months went by, I slowly sank into a depression. Taking pens at work wasn''t properly filling my craving anymore and I started to struggle again. Badly. I wanted to go out and just take some things again. Like a drug addict, I needed my fix. I held back as much as I could and my darling wife spotted the issue long before it spiralled out of control. Aside from my constant craving, my job bored me to tears. It wasn''t satisfying. I could do so much more than pick up and put down damnable boxes. But she couldn''t find a solution either, aside from being there for me as much as she could.


    Then, one auspicious evening, she surprised me with a basic magician''s set. Something about me having proven to her that I had incredibly skilful fingers told her that I might prove to be a deft hand at it. I tried it and even though she had read the book on the tricks before, her eyes couldn''t keep up with my sleight of hands. Without any further explanation, she dragged me to the birthday party of her sister''s eldest son. The kid was nine and incredibly entertained by my performance. Just like that, I had found a new hobby.


    I still do my day job, but in the evenings I do work on the side as a magician. It is honestly a perfect fit for me. It is why I am in this shop, buying fake necklaces, earrings, rings and other bits and bobs. I hand them out to the children and tell them it''s a game. Whoever can last the evening without having things stolen, will receive a gift. Usually, nobody manages. Children are easily distracted and to my wife''s delight, my fingers are indeed incredibly skilled.


    It is a strange life I have lead up till now, but I am one of the lucky few. Kleptomania is an illness that has dire consequences. It destroys your social life. Gives you anxiety. Forces you to give up things normal people take for granted and there is nothing you can do to still the urge. You can suppress it for a while, but it will never go away. Neither abstinence nor giving in is an option. And it is something few people know about. As I said, I am one of the lucky few. I have found people who accept me and a way to still the cravings in a manner that causes very few problems. I still struggle and sometimes take the wrong things. I sometimes pickpocket a person while walking past them without meaning to. Then my wife has to bring back the wallet claiming she found it on the street.


    So that is perhaps what I wish to conclude with. A mental illness isn''t a visible thing. It lurks underneath, hidden and unseen and despite a person''s best effort, there rarely is a complete cure. Holding it at bay for a short while is often the limit of our abilities. And there are many types out there, all different, all debilitating in their own ways. So the next time you are dealing with a person who seems out of the ordinary, give them some space and remember that they may not be acting that way of their own volition. We are all people, with basic needs and a desire to be accepted.


    So please, ladies and gentlemen. Remember my story. Not for me. But for those countless others who are alone and do not want to be.