Hunger and Thirst by Richard Matheson

could adapt oneself to accept the most vile, the most hideous of mental suggestions. But to actually carry it forth into physical terms; that was something else. There he was in full view of the shop and the entire plan seemed new again as if he had just stopped there accidentally and it had suddenly occurred to him to rob the old man. He tried to reinforce his already established arguments but they seemed hollow and unconvincing.
    Across the street he saw the scissors and the drafting instruments and the binoculars and the telescopes.
    His feet moved unguided. He crossed over and stood by the right hand window. There were the rings and under each a neatly printed card—
Unredeemed Pledges
.
    Unredeemed.
    Slowly, in calculated rhythm, he began to drive back the needed rage. Under the coat, his chest moved more quickly with self-tensed breaths.
    And who, he asked himself, were all the men who had come to the old usurer and groveled before his dried-up body, holding out beloved things to his white, liver-spotted hands, smelling the breath from his unclean mouth?
    Unredeemed. He incensed his brain with the double meaning of the word.
    Lost forever. Death spot for souls. Burial ground for honor. He trembled. And it was not forced. Why hang rings and watches there! raged his unbridled mind. Why not have the men themselves hanging head down on biers of blue and maroon velvet?
    He must take advantage quickly before the rage abated. In his judging mind he knew that.
    Closing a tight shaking hand over the knife, he edged over to the door.
    The shop was empty.
    The sight of it made his heart jolt as his hands shook violently in his pockets as if he were now irrevocably committed. As if circumstances were playing their role and he had now perforce to play his.
    He saw the old man in the back, checking the ledger.
    He had on a black coat sweater. His shirt was a light violet, striped with dark purple stripes and he had a red, spotted tie pulled into a finger-thin knot under his Adam’s apple. His skin was like leather under the fluorescent tube; like old, greased and well-kept leather.
    The old man, alone.
    Erick moved to the door, feeling his heart drum loudly in his chest. His hands felt slick and nerveless. God help you if you back down now, he warned himself, you’ve
got
to do it!
    He turned his head quickly as the old man lifted his small eyes to peer out through the doorway. He looked at the second-hand typewriters, his lips trembling. He swallowed a hard lump in his throat. I said you
have
to do it! Do you think Leo won’t get what she wants? You know damn well she will. Go on in there. It’s your only choice. Go in there, you fool, and take what belongs to you. Didn’t he want your watch in his filthy window for nine dollars, the watch your mother gave you, your own mother who’s…
    The door bell tinkled as he pushed in convulsively, praying that his face wasn’t white and frightened as he felt. He took a deep, quavering breath and, with shaking fingers, pretended to examine a guitar on the counter.
    “Closing, what d’ya want?” the old man asked in his thin, grating voice.
    Erick cleared his throat. “I came…” he started and then his throat clogged up again.
    “I came to pawn my watch,” he said.
    In the first second he felt a rush of humiliated terror that he really meant it. Then his mind flung away the idea. Yes, that’s it.
That’s
it! Play the ruse. He urged himself on, swallowing and forcing a casual smile to his lips.
    The smile disappeared. It was not a smiling incident. Inside, he felt as clever as he could for having thought of a ruse so quickly. But his hands shook for fear that he would actually go through with it.
    All this in a second as the old man spoke immediately.
    “Too late,” said the old man, scowling. He waved one thick-veined hand toward the door and looked back to his ledger.
    It supplied the strength Erick needed. Suddenly Erick was filled with a complete hate for the old