He was grinning like an idiot. Charming white teeth a ’shining. Smiling face a tinge of red, black hair spiking out from beneath a tight black cap. Most noticeably, the young man’s almost purple eyes. Everything else about him was concealed by thin black clothing.
         I would have considered him a little more charming, if he didn’t happen to be a thief.
         Even my stone eyes could identify that much, as he peered at my sculpted, feline figure, dangling a delicate vase from his gloved hand, as if it meant nothing to him.
         Vaguely, I wondered what he was looking at. There was nothing to see but me, the stone image of a sitting lion.
         Then he laughed, uncharacteristic of a thief, and smashed the vase into the ground with a swing of his arm.
         I looked on passionless-ly, emptily, like the statue that was me. It disturbed me, yes, but I was a simple stone object; what was I to do?
         I doubted my master would care much. Angels were forgiving beings—showy and extravagant—never breaking from the most positive of attitudes.
         Where was she, I pondered. How nice it would be to have her there, so that I wouldn’t be faced such a conundrum. Even if she did nothing, it would save me the shame of having the events unfold beneath my watch. Not that I could be blamed. I was a simple statue, nothing more. It was not my duty to take action, but to remain still, an ornament of empty space.
         The thief stood still, looking down at the shards beneath his feet in pity. Only, he was smiling, chuckling, and holding his stomach like the whole event was so funny it hurt. On that count, I agreed. Watching the demon-kid’s antics hurt my eyes. If I was a real lion, I would have looked away and covered my ears. But I was a statue, and could do nothing but watch.
         Then he lost interest and walked off, smirking to himself.
         I was left alone, quiet at last. My thoughts calmed, returning to a placid state. Just a thief, right? No big deal. Why would she care? As an angel of great power, such events as a single broken vase and few missing items would be insignificant.
         Footsteps returned, and the thief slid past my dais, slipping an emerald ring into his black pocket. Her favorite. 
         Seconds later, he was gone from sight.
         My cold skin bristled, my mind suddenly unable to clear itself of the image of the little-devil’s sharp smile.
         Smiling, smiling, smiling, laughing, laughing, screaming, and pointing at me. Surely she wouldn’t care. Surely it didn’t matter.
         But it did; maybe not to her—the angel who never lifted a finger at anyone—but it mattered to me, the statue who watched the hallways with a cold, empty, stare.
         It was selfish, unlike me, and unlike my being, but I cared. Stealing was wrong. Breaking things was wrong. And so I cared when those rules were broken. I didn’t care who did it, and directed no anger towards him, but the rules were not to be broken.
         Even a statue knew that. A statue who watched the hallways with a hot, clear, gaze, and a bright set of snarling teeth.
         Then the thief returned, now carrying a sack over one shoulder, whistling happily, and then he stopped. Frozen in mid-step, whistle trailing off into silence.
         My smile grew wider as I stood up my hind legs, and placed a heavy foot off the stage.
         “Stealing’s wrong,” I rumbled, hot breath dripping from my snout.
         I don’t think he found it as funny as I did.