When she woke up, there were no ties on her hands. But there were questions. So many questions.
She heard the stairs creaking as he returned. A heavy form filled the doorway. His face was still placid. Who was he?
He sat down on a folding chair that somehow held his weight. “I imagine you have questions. But I may not have answers for you. You should know that before you start asking me.”
Where was she? Who was he? Why was she here? What did he do to her? What is going on??
“I am a collector.” He had obviously seen all the questions racing across her face. “That is my duty – to collect.”
Collect? She had seen movies about psychopaths, had read books about horrible men like Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy, watched TV shows about the psychology of serial murderers. Was she going to become part of his collection? But she didn’t feel threatened. Or angry. Or afraid. Or anything.
“You are simply where you end up, eventually.” There was a simple finality to that statement. Not harsh, not firm… just final.
She finally managed to speak. “What happened?”
This is how it always goes, he thought. They all want to know the specifics, as if that would change anything.
“I don’t know.” Definitely not the answer she expected. Her eyes took in the particulars of the room as her mind tried wrapping around and unwrapping itself from the situation. The room was spartan, to say the least: a table with a small lamp, the bed with a thin mattress, gray cinder block walls.
He did not respond. She looked down at the scar on her chest…
What was that all about? And the knives? And why did she feel so level-headed despite everything that had happened – but what had happened?
“As I said, I am a collector.” His obfuscation would be infuriating if she didn’t feel so peaceful.
“I don’t… understand…” she could not resist sleeping again. Dreaming again.