I watch him cry. Because that is what I do.
I wait and watch…
I am the collector.
I collect the most precious thing in the world – the tears of my enemies.
It’s a very rare business and I know you never heard about it, but while it doesn’t pay the most bucks, it keeps me sane. In some cases, taking their tears helps me to drink their wisdom, but mostly – I collect to experience the memories that are tied to their most scary (or sad) emotions…
x x x
Today, I’m patiently waiting for when she’ll leave, so I can get in, do my fuckin’ business and get out. It does not mean that I don’t enjoy what I do, it only means pleasure comes secondary. You can smirk for all I care. It’s the path I chose.
Life has given me no menu… Well, it did. It’s asked me to choose between the Devil and the deep blue sea. I’ve chosen the Devil.
x x x
Andy is the cream of the crop: smart, wealthy, successful… My biggest job so far. I mutter his name because it keep me focused while waiting:
Andy. Andy. Andy. Andy. Andy.
I start to sing it… oh boy, your tears will be a real hit in my collection. Ha!
x x x
I arrive at the scene and find them kissing. Sigh. It’s disturbing how people grieve and then, suddenly, move to sex as a reliever. Whatever happened to feeling the hurt and not ruining it with body to body bullshit? Hmm, I notice she’s not pulling off her clothes, so I figure she isn’t planning to stay. But people have been known to change their plans, especially when sex is involved. And it is Andy Kirman – good looks and money. Cocky bastard! He could make snow come down on a sunny day…
x x x
I knock on the door and hear someone curse. While waiting, I remember the others in my collection: Darey Smith, Fiona Gerald, Sammy, Dorian, Keith and even that stupid billionaire called Sly. Their crying faces fill my head. I grin in anticipation of what I’m going to see when he opens the door. I feel so ecstatic.
You are the last one, Andy…
The door opens and I see surprised look of his latest model… that annoyed look, like someone has just crashed your birthday party.
Hallelujah girl, I just saved your ass from suckin’ a crippled old dick. Where’s your ‘thank you’?
I push her inside. She wants to scream, but I put my hand over her mouth to muffle whatever noise she can make.
“I don’t want to kill you.” I whisper in her ear.
I drag her to the living room, where ‘my prize’ is sitting, pants down.
x x x
Lets talk a bit about Andy Kirman, shall we?
You might wonder why I’m so obsessed with him. I’ll tell you. It’s because his existence threatens my very sanity. That smug asshole has managed to become all I ever wanted to be in life: a handsome, successful lawyer, who has women flocking around him.
This was meant to be my life!
I need an evidence that he also can be sorrowful like the rest of us. I need a trophy, a point of contact. Something, that can comfort me whenever I see him smiling on TV after winning any of his cases. Then I can hold the jar that contains his tears… and find some solace.
x x x
I see his shocked look. Mine was far from the face he was expecting.
“Hello Andy, don’t bother standing up. I know you can’t.” I punch him hard on the face. When he starts crying, it is not from the punches. It is because of his helplessness and hate.
And I love it.
I’m the collector.
I take his tears.
As I leave, I tell him that I am deeply sorry. Not because I am, but because it helps me feel professional. Then I continue with my usual speech: “See I know you’re probably disgusted by me, but believe it or not, I did it FOR YOU. I did it to keep you safe. At least, the most important part of you… your tears. And I promise to cherish it, for as long as I remember”.
Five minutes later, I’ve slipped through a secret path and fast on my way home.
The day starts well. I wake up and inspect my jars of tears. My smile widens as I see Andy Kirby’s – the latest recruit. I tap the jar and mouthed a “thank you” when I hear the sound of my doorbell.
It’s the bloody mailman. He’s brought a package. I snatch it and mumble something before slamming the door behind me, wondering who the hell has the effrontery to send me a letter.
I tear the covering and see a few pieces of paper. “What the heck?” I say to myself, feeling puzzled, almost sure that I’ve gotten the wrong mail. Within are a couple of medical reports. Something else drops. It’s a short letter, signed by… my eyes widen. It’s signed by Andy Kirman!
Don’t be surprised that I was able to contact you. Let’s just say that I have a lot of resources…
You must be basking in the euphoria of collecting my tears. But whatever your aim is, can you quickly take a look at the medical reports first? You’ll notice that I’ve been diagnosed with the condition called Sjogrens syndrome (for three years now), meaning I’m unable to make natural tears. To lubricate my eyes, I use artificial tears prescribed by my doctor, and I’d just applied some in my eyes before you came…
So whatever you thought you collected were never my real tears. What you got could have been purchased from any convenience store.
The letter drops from my hands.
Everything goes blank.
Next post – London trip