The Collector

Flash Fiction Friday with a story about a different type of collector. 

Here it is. Enjoy! 

 

 

The Collector


He carefully unlocked the mahogany vitrine and slowly opened its glass wings. The sun shined directly on the upper shelf, playing its usual tricks on the trophies aligned there. He liked calling them trophies. They made him feel happy, somehow rewarded, even blessed.

He gasped like many times before amazed by their magical glamour. Then he reached a hand and gently touched the surface of one of them with the tip of his finger. It was cold and smooth under his skin.

It was perfect. He knew it was perfect. It had its own individuality, its own specific shine and content just like each one of the trophies. The sunshine got caught in its glass covering for a bit longer, burning like fire, chasing itself like sunflower petals blown by the wind in the summer. There were fields of golden crops in it, under a sky wide and blue and silent. The smell of freshly baked bread touched his nostrils, reminding him of some forgotten home.

He remained entranced by that beauty just a bit more.  A warm feeling nested inside him until his eyes moved away and focused on the next trophy.

It had the color of the ocean. It was the ocean; deep, sad, distant, with the scent of many memories, of thousand autumn nights, and the taste of salt and strong scotch. He could almost hear the water splashing into black, solid rocks.

Cold soaked into his bones and made him shiver.

He bended a little bit and moved his sight away from that haunting vision of a place far, far away.

Now his eyes were looking at the bottom shelf.

He licked dry lips.

Temptation grew like a little monster in him, reaching out to touch, to grab the forbidden fruit. He accepted it, and allowed himself to take out one trophy.

He held it on his eye level, trying to breathe less not to steam the glass.

This one was green, but not entirely. There was grey concrete. He felt it like concrete. Like children’s playground in a garden, with crawling flowers behind the wooden benches.

He felt the loneliness. Yet it was a sweet one. In the blink of an eye he almost felt himself there. He heard the crying sound of a swing making the shadow of some child dance and jump on the black asphalt underneath.

He sat down leaving the trophy beside him. Tears ran down his cheeks.

–         So powerful! So beautiful! – He whispered to himself. He couldn’t speak out more words. His voice was trembling.

The feeling from all those emotions being breathed into him was simply amazing.

He looked down and glanced at his trophy, at the little glass globe he’d left on the wooden floor.  Then he slowly stood up and returned it to its given place.

For a moment he just stood there continuing to adjust it carefully. A second later he took a step back and looked at his precious collection of glass globes.

He couldn’t help but smile.

There all the glass spheres glimmered, shinned and whispered something in remembrance to the many lost lives, dreams, desires and memories which were entrapped in them; they were all there for him to drink from,  maintaining his existence, making himself feel human again. It was like having the world and its best emotions on your shelf.

He closed his eyes letting the euphoria surround him.

He felt complete now.

Pleased he opened his eyes and wiped the remaining trace of the dried tears from his face.

The clock on the wall raised a ticking voice which resonated in the room. He looked at it.

Time has slipped away again! How fast it flies he thought to himself while closing the wings of the vitrine. He putted the key in and turned it two times.

His face reflected like a ghost in the glass.

It had an even wider grin.

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