I was challenged to write some super short flash fiction stories. Here’s one of them:

I was known for stealing from my friends.
They thanked me for it. Stars above, how they thanked me.
On Wednesday, Tobias called me up and begged me to come over and steal from him again. He did that every few months. Some people are more rich with things they don’t want than others. Tobias, especially.
When I walked into his house, he was huddled on the couch, tears on his cheeks. He probably would have been embarrassed if I hadn’t seen him like this so many times before.
I knelt beside him and he immediately clasped my hand. “Take it,” he said, voice choked with a desperation and self-loathing I was all too familiar with. “Take it, please.”
So I stole from him.
I reached into his mind and immediately saw the thing he was trying to eject. It was sharp and hot and very, very obvious. These things always were. All teeth and claws. Many of them were loud, but Tobias’s was quiet. Quiet, but full of a self-destructive acidity. If I left it with him, its voice would slowly rip him apart. It was just words. Thoughts. But thoughts had power.
As soon as it trickled out of his mind and into my own, he slumped onto the couch with a moan of relief.
The quiet thing settled into my own mind and began to whisper to me softly, joining the murmuring chorus of all the other things I’d taken. It was the newest voice in my head, a new constant companion.
These companions were the only ones I couldn’t steal from.
Someday, they would rip me apart because of it.