Читать книгу The Collector - Cameron Cruise - Страница 5

Your name is Dog.

You don’t find the name cruel, only ironic. When the kids first begin calling you Dog, you think of them as acolytes, unable or unworthy to say your name outright. They say it backward.

Dog.

God.

It’s been that way all your life. Few are worthy.

You remember all the names you were taught as a novice: Ra, Brahma, Zeus, Quetzalcoatl, Odin. You close your eyes and whisper your own name, adding it to the list. Your skin feels on fire with your brilliance. In some corner of your mind, you understand that the sensation is really pain. This time, he beat you with his belt.

You give a secret smile. The pain brings with it the power of knowledge: you’re the one in control now, pulling the strings.

Bloodletting, you were taught, is an important ritual, one that has endured through the ages. Druids would kill a man by slicing open his midsection to divine the future from the convulsion of limbs and the pattern of blood. India’s Thuggee cult, followers of Kali, Hindu goddess of death, mutilated their strangled victims by stabbing the eyes and ripping out the intestines. Centuries ago, Aztec priests reached into the chest cavity to pull out the still-beating heart, the life force flowing from the altar, nectar for the gods.

You, too, require your sacrifice.

At this late hour, it isn’t difficult to get by security, if that’s what they call the dozing guard with his chair propped against the chain-link fence. You pass roped-off mosaic tiles and ancient stones and statuary that look like so many Tinker Toys, broken pieces bravely pieced together like something precious. Each day, lines of tourists worship here with their cameras and their guides, but you covet something very different.

Walking down the limestone path, you pass two coeds speaking in hushed tones in what sounds like German. You will yourself invisible, just another student no one will remember come morning. The girl with shining blond hair slips a glance your way with a smile, giving the greeting, “Grüezi.” Swiss, then. You can’t help it. You smile back.

The full moon shines down on the ruins like stage lighting. You know the exact moment the play begins because you follow the main characters here. You don’t miss even a second. You know he will take her somewhere safe, somewhere deserted. There is no one but you to stand as audience.

She follows willingly for the moment, but you expect her to put up a fight.

From the shadows, you watch them argue. She makes a slashing gesture with her hand, letting him know her answer. No. Absolutely not! That’s when he makes his move.

He grabs her by the hair, shoving her forward. He strikes her, over and over. She bleeds from her mouth and nose, but she is a strong woman; she doesn’t falter. She swipes her clawed fingers across his face, at the same time kicking wildly. Only, by now he has the rope around her neck.

He pulls her down to the ground. Sadly, you are reminded of cattle being branded rather than a religious ceremony. You had hoped for better.

You have extraordinary hearing and take in the music of her death as her breath begins to gurgle deep in her throat. You can’t see her face—he is hunched over her, blocking her from view—but her legs and arms flail in drumbeats on the ground.

You know his vision is merely to kill her and take his prize. He is quick—too quick. Her death doesn’t do her justice. You want to scream in frustration. Not like this! you plead silently, knowing that she deserves a much grander homage to her life and work.

When she finally stops moving, he releases his grip on the rope and falls back on the ground beside her, winded as if he’s fought some great battle. But soon enough, he rises to his knees. He searches frantically through the pockets of the windbreaker she’s wearing, finding his treasure. You wonder how he convinced her to bring it here. He cradles the stone against his chest in relief.

After he leaves, you approach in complete silence. Standing over her, you see the rope he used to strangle her, still around her neck. Sloppy.

Her skin reminds you of the moonlight reflecting off the ancient marble surrounding you. You kneel down, stroking the blood from her bottom lip with your thumb. There’s not enough light to give her much color. The blood looks like a dark stain on her white skin. You suck the blood off your thumb. It tastes like an old penny.

You know what you want, picturing her blue, blue eyes. But you also need to be careful.

Suddenly, you hear a wheezing breath. You watch her chest rise as she chokes in a lungful of air. Her eyes open. The fingers of her right hand spasm to life. That’s when you move in like a spider racing across its web.

You grab the rope by both ends. There’s no time to act on any of your grand plans; the idiot before you made sure of that. Standing over her, you know the exact moment she recognizes you. The knowledge of her fate is there in her startled gaze.

As she struggles, you hum to yourself a childhood favorite.

There was an old woman who swallowed a fly.

I don’t know why she swallowed a fly.

Perhaps she’ll die….

You smile, knowing that, in the end, they all die.