Collecting Love

Chapter 3

The pebble road on which I walk was once as lively as the rest of the village in its own way.

The pebbles, now charred and blackened, were once many different shades of orange, white, brown and even blue or green. The road had been nicely framed by the vibrantly green grass, lovely apple trees, and people's houses, which were painted pretty colours and inhabited by happy families and laughing children.

Somewhere along the way, a small, white bridge had once let you cross a sparkling stream, where races with paper boats were often held by the laughing children once mentioned.

Now the pebbles are grey as smoke, like the rest of village, and scattered haphazardly along the way they used to lead you. The way the pebbles are kicked about to the point you can barely tell this had been a road once showed that frantic people have run across the road, involuntarily kicking and stumbling until the road almost destroyed.

Now the bridge has collapsed.

The once picturesque houses in my village have collapsed, some onto the road, and instead of the merry colours that had once covered their walls they now display various shades of black and grey, matching the dark sky.

The once sweet pebble road of which I speak is also decorated by steaming, foul-smelling heaps. I don't dare look to close. I know what I would find.

Charred and melted skin, blackened bones, agonised faces belonging to victims of suffocation. The corpses of the townspeople littered the earth, and every once in a while I accidentally catch a glimpse. Only a glimpse, but it is enough for me to cringe away, shuddering, stomach heaving.

The corpses are often burned beyond recognition. The few times I find myself looking at a pile and finding dead, cold eyes, staring into the distance and at the same time at nothing at all, I almost prefer the charred heaps over the empty shells with the empty eyes. I try to take comfort in the fact that I saw most of them leave with the Collectors.

Thinking of the Collectors gets me thinking about the boy. I grasp the thought of him, grateful for an escape from thinking of the townspeople who now lay, eyes unseeing or burnt away, at my feet.

I honestly have no idea what to think of him. If I had gone with him, would I be with my grandpapa now, instead of stumbling over the burnt remains of the people I once knew? Did I even have a choice? I don't know which I would rather have. I try not to think to hard of grandpapa. I will save mourning for later, when I have salvaged what I can from my house. There will be plenty of time for grief.

The Collector boy's face fills my mind, and I involuntarily let out a sigh. He was breathtakingly beautiful, but not in a romantic way. His beauty was like that of a waterfall, or a lovely orange blossom in the spring. It made you feel calm. At peace.

I wonder why he didn't even try to take me with him. I was part of my village, and if my village had to die, so should I. I should be with them now. What kind of person must I be, who let them all leave and die while I walk here, living and breathing?

I am suddenly disgusted with myself.

Angry tears well up in my eyes and I wipe them away with my sooty sleeve. Again, this is not the time or place for mourning.

All thoughts of Collector boy and self-blame are gone from my mind as I near my home.

The yard is burned, the grass gone. The flowers grandfather and I spent so much time caring for are burnt as black as the rest of it all. The white picket fence we had recently repainted and restored to its former glory is now ash, spreading in the wind, dirtying the grass even more.

The stones walls, once cosy and bright orange, grey and beige, are now blackened and the roof has collapsed to become the floor. The door is black as well, and the handle has melted. I kick the door in with little effort.

Inside, I am greeted with the sight of our fireplace. The wall between the hallway and the living room has collapsed as well, and the fireplace in the living room is the first thing I see.

As though in a trance, I walk toward it.

I slowly make my way through the destroyed hallway, stepping over the ruins of the wall without looking down. The closer I get, the more intense the feeling of dread building in my stomach grows.

Directly in front of the fireplace, I stop. Breathe.

In.

Out.

On top of the mantelpiece, all of our old photographs still stand tall.

In one of the photos, I sit in grandfathers lap. We are outside, on the top of the hill outside the village, under the old oak tree. It's the photo we took last year, on out annual spring picnic.

The picnic we have every year on March 7th.

A cold fist squeezes my stomach as I realise today is March 7th.

Suddenly I can't breathe.

The panic hits me. I fall to the ground, gasping for breath. I stand shakily and stagger to the kitchen in the search for water while struggling to breathe.

I turn on the tap and it breaks off in my hand, charred through.

There is no water here. What did I expect?

My vision goes black again. I don't expect this and I stumble, twisting my ankle and hitting my head on the tap. It hurts, but the pain is nothing.

Nothing compared to not being able to breathe.

This attack is different from the last. Last time, it was red-hot and terrorising. This is black.

This is guilt of being the only one left.

This is the realisation of being completely, utterly, suffocatingly alone.

As I lie on the destroyed kitchen floor, clawing at my throat and one hand on my chest, which is threatening to explode, I notice that the entire atmosphere is somehow taken up a notch from hurtling downward to calmer. A feeling of peace settles in me and I slowly regain the ability to breathe.

I once again lay panting on the floor, the sheen of sweat covering my face and chest turning cool against my skin. The room seems to be slightly brighter than usual, and I look around for the source of this new light.

I find what I'm looking for by the ruined staircase.

The Collector is standing there peacefully, watching me with his ever-changing eyes.