Fiction: The Collector
First draft and have not yet managed to complete a second version. This is a short story about an ephemeral dream being who collects lost things.
The shadows were dark and strong. Full of things unseen. The edges of things seemed to excite the imagination, dark curtains folded, light glinting off shiny surface like a ball or sphere, marble and glitter but the overall effect was still-darkness. A heavy blackness stronger then a closed curtain except for the spot of light that glistened and englowed the bed.
She turned slowly- unaware of where she was. A dull confusion, but more curiosity. She didn’t remember who she was or how it was she was here, in this red and black rich silk bed. A thin silk-like veil surround the four poster bed and helped heighten the feeling that the darkness was everything except for the bed.
He was there, a man. Hiding or perhaps not but the darkness hid him. She felt only his piercing glaze and nothing else. She pulled the blankets up around her to hide her modesty for apparently she wore very little. But some how she felt the man was not interested in desecration or violence. She knew him but also she did not. Someone who is always there but has no name, no history.
He was part of the hidden glimpses of the objects, one as such with them, an object himself. “Good Evening.” He spoke, a gentile even feminine voice. “You have woken?” motion she sensed as he circled closer to the bed, the veil moved as he pushed close, but still he was hidden in darkness.
“They say life is the most precious gift?” he said as if to the wind, his blurred profile looked reflective.
“Where am I?” the woman blurted out, it sound wrong and out of place here and it terrified her to her soul.
“You are here because you would be dead if not. I am somewhat a collector but you are the first alive thing I ever collected,” the shadow seemed to smile, a joke. “Are you hungry? Cold? Do you want to eat now or wait for dinner proper? Do not be afraid. Is it too dark in here?” he paused his slow rant.
“I” she began.
“Yes?” he seemed to lean closer, the veil shimmering?
“I can’t remember”
A little later, she took the courage to leave the bed. The man, the collector as she thought of him had gone. Her eyes grew somewhat accustomed to the darkness, there was a faint light, a tiny glow that permuted the atmosphere. “Dress for dinner?” he had said. And now before her was a dressing table, an antique it looked, oak wooden with a grand mirror with embellishment along the frame. A candle lit it self as she approached, illuminating the mirror. Across the old desk was the most modern make-up, perfume and accessories; Channel, Gucci?
She saw herself for the first time, it sparked no recognition. Pure, soft looking skin, her face was nice even pretty, thought it was herself who made this observation and judgement. On the back of the chair that stood beside the desk, lay a long silk gown. She knew this all seemed twisted, but she felt it was natural, the way it was. And she did feel the starting pangs of hunger.
When she dressed she decided to find out where she was. A strong light now glowed over the place. Huge massive paintings in massive gold frames lay on their sides. In the half-light she looked at them, wonderful paintings of Greek gods she didn’t recognise, woman and men in carnal pleasures, landscapes of epic nature, battle fields; all blood and death. Candles lit as if by magic illuminating the corridors, that were lined with statues and busts, posters of rock stars she never heard off, antique and modern equipment that seemed to gain a wondrous position here. Yet she knew not where the walls were or where she went. She heard nothing but the rustling of the long beautiful gown that fitted perfectly.
“You like what you see?” the voice of the man seemed to come from nowhere. “Yes it is wonderful, beautiful?” He moved in the shadows so that she knew from where his voice came but she couldn’t see him in the shadows. “Where are we?”
“Nowhere. None of this exists.”
“Like a dream?”
“No. Dreams exist when you dream? all you see here is gone, destroyed. I collected the most beautiful ones.”
“I don’t understand. Do you not exist?” She imagined she saw his leg illuminated by a nearby candle. But he remained silent. She turned from him and wandered down the corridor looking at the artefacts and things.
“Come, let me show you, before dinner. Perhaps I can show you by example.” His voice came from in front, light seemed to silhouette him but it was blurred, undefined.
He moved and she found herself in a huge room, that stretched to the sky, books in huge towering bookcases. Candles illuminated the place but some how it was brighter, clearer. But the man stood behind the corner of one bookcase, only his foot identified his existence. “The greatest human library, burned to the ground by barbarians? and here?” She turned the corner after him, and she stood now in a huge pyramid-like building, white marble and amazing motifs? “One of the buildings of Atlantis?” His voice was from behind her and she turned to face him, he moved out of sight without moving. “Come, eat and dine with me.”
“Are you alone here?”
“Here?” the word seemed somehow confused on his lips and he paused but then replied, “there are others, things, here that I occasional met.”
They were in a banquet hall, a huge king size table stood laded with hot steaming food, a mad mixture of shells, burgers, turkey, soup, things on silver platter dishes, things with noodles? “Sit and enjoy.” He pulled out a chair for her to sit on and she sat down. He sat across from her, but was hidden by a golden roasted goose. “If this place does not exist, then how am I here? Who am I?”
“The knowledge is everywhere here, it is nearly what consists of here? feel it?” he said, she saw his arm waving to the air. She ate some of the delicious food before replying, “No. I know nothing. What is your name?”
“I have no name, no label. Perhaps no being as such. Wait, perhaps this is will help you?” A curtain fell from a framed picture revealing a portrait of what was apparently her. She studied if for a moment uncertain and approached it. The paint on it still seemed fresh. She touched it’s textured surface and a memory surface.
Another man, a young man, strong and wild, dancing with her covered in multicoloured paint, unveiling the painting. “It’s finished Sarah.”
“Sarah.” She said aloud. “But I still don’t remember.” The man, the collector was close, beside her. She couldn’t feel him but knew. A blurred shaped passed over her hand and she felt it like a breeze. “Look.” He said the voice so close to her ear. Beside the painting lay a notebook. Written on the front was the words “Sarah’s Diary.”
“The painting was destroyed in the fire. Sarah.” He pronounced her name slowly. “I collected it.”
“I don’t remember.”
“The diary, you destroyed after he died. Sarah. The fire you started to save yourself to destroy him. He is gone, I didn’t collect him, I do not collect the dead.”
“The diary?”
“It is the most amazing thing I’ve ever read. Sarah.”
She remember, the fire. Locking the door to her husband as he slept off another drunken night in the bedroom. Spraying the place with oil, using his zippo lighter to lit the gasoline or what ever it was. The fire, dreaded and sharp, violent and bright, nearly suffocating her. Her diary?
“My diary?”
“You feel the knowledge in the air, I sense you touching it. The experiences are reawaken in you?.”
She was crying, a tear escaping her eye. “I’m dead, I died?” the tear fell.
She felt the collector close. His non-existent form trying to touch her, comfort her.
The tear fell, the real tear. It landed on the edge of his boot.
And he knew.
She looked up and the collector stood before him. His form real and vivid. Tall and his long hair blond, dressed like a mad historian, with a silk waistcoat, jeans, pointed shoes and a top hat. He was more beautiful then all she had seen here. For that moment he loved her and knew she could not stay here, in the place that doesn’t exist, with things that are destroying with someone who has no being. He felt pain also for the first time.
Sarah woke up. She couldn’t move. Electronic machines beeped around her, a gas mask lay on her face. Nurses and doctors all around in a violent collage of experince. She didn’t remember the collector, the place.
After she recovered from her injuries she tried to pick up her life again. But every time she slept or dreamt, she felt hope, she felt longing for something that she knew wasn’t there and she couldn’t understand. And occasionally, when she was alone, she glimpse someone around a corner, in a crowd, in the shadow that wasn’t there. And when she witnessed something truly beautiful or highly destructive she felt that someone was there beside her. It never made her uncomfortable or upset.