Page 33 of The Collector
"Then I'm going to skin the rest of your body, remove all the tissue and muscle, before disposing of what remains in an unmarked grave. I know what you're thinking." The Collector continued to cut the skin from the muscle of her back. It's very labor-intensive, but it's not really work when you enjoy it."
He freed the skin from her back and held the flayed piece to the light.It was his best work yet.
"Look at this beauty," he said as he walked before her, "Your skin was the perfect canvas, don't you think?"
She stared at him, unable to blink, tears falling in streaks down her face. He laid the skin out carefully on a sterilized tray for stretching and drying before returning to her.
He wondered if she would die of blood loss or shock first. It was a game he liked to play to test his ability to judge character. He decided she would die of shock; she didn't seem to have much fight in her; only the resilient ones die of blood loss. He returned to the front of her body and began slicing at her right wrist in a circle around the wrist and then up the middle of the inside of the arm to free the skin from it. Then, likewise, he did the same to the left, the thrill of the blood on his blade freeing him from his need with each stroke. After each arm was free, he moved to the juncture of her neck and clavicle to begin removing the skin from the upper torso. He pressed two fingers against her carotid artery, searching for the rhythm of her life. Nothing. The silence of her flesh confirmed what her vacant stare already told him—she had escaped, freed herself from the prison of her fragile, broken body.
There was a stillness in the room, heavy like a shroud. It wasn't peace—it was something colder, harsher, without motion or breath. The Collector drew his hand back slowly, the weight of finality settling into his chest as he realized she had slipped beyond his reach, leaving behind only the hollow shell of her body.
"Well…, you're no fun, are you," he said, "But the show must go on."
The long, graveled road stretched ahead, winding through dense vegetation and towering trees that seemed to shield itfrom the world beyond. Each crunch of gravel beneath the tires resonated with comforting familiarity, grounding the Collector in its rugged embrace. This path always carried him to solace, a place where the chaos of life dissolved into the rustling of leaves and the whisper of the wind.
The cabin, tucked away at the end of the road like a hidden secret, was his childhood home. The air felt different here—crisper, imbued with comfort…. a feeling that no other place held. The trees around the drive stood as sentinels, guarding the tranquility he found here, which had become his lifeline. It wasn't just a cabin but a refuge where time ceased to exist, and the outside world couldn't find him.
Here, amidst the embrace of nature, he had felt a rare and unconditional love. Summers spent with his adopted father unfolded into the only fond memories he had—days filled with the rhythmic flow of trout lines in the water and the cool embrace of waders as they stood side by side. Their lessons mingled with the sounds of nature, and hours passed each moment suspended in the quiet rhythm of the wild. Away from the call of the Kings … away from the twisted demands forced on them. It had been the perfect resting place for Alejandro's victims, and now it was the final resting place for his own.
He still ran those trout lines and caught so many fish that he gave them away to the locals. The flesh of his kills made the best bait; catfish devoured a whole corpse in hours. He would have never guessed that to be true. But Alejandro taught him the skill of fishing as well as the art of the kill. Surprisingly, as it was, it was a foolproof plan to dispose of the remaining biological matter of his victims.
Pulling up in front of the cabin, he pulled out his phone and checked the cameras. The man lay on his cot in the eight-by-eight-foot cell inside. Everything was just as it should be. The pieces on the chessboard were all still in play.
Still, a thought clung to him like a shadow, as undeniable as it was inevitable. The cabin, with his only memories of laughter and semblance of love he'd ever felt… would soon be out of reach. Dread welled up inside him—an ache as sharp as the gravel beneath his feet—at the realization that his refuge, this home, would become a part of his past he could never reclaim when he left.
The trees swayed gently as the wind forced them to dance. The Collector knew this place would always hold his essence. Leaving it would mean leaving behind the last piece of himself—perhaps the latter part of his childhood that he liked.
He checked his watch as he moved to the trunk. 2:30— he would need to hurry if he wanted to return in time for opening tonight. He unloaded the supplies for his captive. Nothing fancy - protein bars, water, some fruit, and canned meats. He'd been losing a lot of weight recently. Maybe a few new items on the menu would spark his appetite. He needed him alive for just a bit longer. If this didn't work, he'd have to move to more extreme measures. He wasn't ready to walk away from this place just yet. He scanned the landscape, trying to memorize every detail he could as he walked up the path to the cabin.
The wooden door opening announced his arrival. As it swung open, he revealed the dimly lit interior of the rustic cabin. The scent of aged wood and earth enveloped him, a familiar fragrance that brought an instant sense of calm. Dust motes danced lazily in the golden beams of light spilling through the small windows, accentuating the worn charm of the space.
When he crossed the threshold, his weight caused the floorboards to groan beneath him. The walls were adorned with faded photographs of his father and him holding up stringers of fish, old hunting trophies, the last whispers of the summers spent here, memories etched into every grain of aged timber.
His eyes adjusted to the gentle gloom and saw the sturdy, well-loved furniture—a weathered table, mismatched chairs, and a well-worn armchair sitting by the stone fireplace, its mantle cluttered with trinkets from his childhood. This place was more than a building to him; it was a labyrinth of secrets. The worn rug in front of him was frayed at the edges from years of wear but shifted with ease as he kicked it aside, unveiling the bolted metal hatch embedded in the floor. The sound of the rug sliding echoed faintly through the quiet room.
With ease, the Collector pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, the faint jingle breaking the stillness. He paused momentarily, hovering over the correct key before slotting it into the lock. The mechanism struggled as he turned it, the heavy bolt sliding back with a satisfying thud.
He needed to reapply the lubricant.
He flung the door open without hesitation to a set of narrow, descending stairs that disappeared into an impenetrable darkness. A faint, musty draft laced with human body odor wafted up from below, carrying with it the unmistakable weight of something long hidden. He stood at the threshold for a moment, staring into the void, before stepping forward with the certainty of someone who had been here many times before.
The overhead light buzzed to life before he reached the bottom step.
The man lay motionless on his cot, his body curled into itself, trying to escape the grim reality of his surroundings. The stench of his filth clung to him, a testament to the weeks he had spent in this dark, unyielding cell. Dirt streaked his skin, mingling with the sweat and grime that had become a second layer.
"I see you finally made it back to check on me— afraid I might be dead by now," the man asked, as he squinted towards him with a raspy voice. He'd been in darkness for a week, with only slivers of light that sneaked in through cracks and gapsin the worn wooden beams overhead. They were too weak to offer comfort but enough to mock him with glimpses of the unreachable outside.
"Hardly, you realize I have cameras everywhere on the property and monitor you 24/7. Don't you?" He set the supplies at the edge of the man's cell. He really wasn't worried about him trying to attack him. At this point, he had become far too weak to put up much of a fight. The thought barely crossed his mind as he observed the man slumped in the corner, his body reduced to little more than a trembling shell. The defiance that once burned fiercely in his eyes had long since faded, replaced by a hollow, glassy stare. Weakness clung to him like a second skin, his breath shallow and uneven, his movements sluggish—a creature robbed of its will to fight. He was an outdated version of the Collector, how he had seen himself before he became who he was now.
There was no challenge left in him, no threat to anticipate. The man was no longer an adversary but an object, stripped of power, barely worth a moment's thought.
"I don't understand why you bother keeping me alive; why don't you just kill me and get it over with? What's the purpose of keeping me here?"
"You'll understand why soon enough. I came to tell you… to be ready. You'll soon be getting your freedom back."
"Freedom," the man said, "at what cost?" He struggled to right himself on the cot, his limbs lethargic and slow. Yet his eyes, sunken but sharp, locked on him with an intensity that belied his weakened state.
He remained silent momentarily, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as he studied the man. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, thick and oppressive. The man's question had struck a chord, but The Collector held his secrets close, his calculated demeanor revealing nothing.
