Page 11

Edward states while counting on his fingers, “Any time you decide to have ‘fun,’ there is collateral damage, a large mess to clean up, and I feel the onset splitting headache. In any case, finish up your hobby or whatever it is you’re doing. The Collector has a new mark that needs to be deceased by midnight tomorrow.”

That gives me pause. The corner of my mouth lifts. Interesting. Very interesting.

“He usually gives more notice than that, or did you forget about this mark? You know, if you’d let me meet him, I could help keep track of jobs and—” I begin to remark, but he cuts off my words in anger.

“I have distinctly stated, over and over: No! You will not meet him. You do not want to meet him. He is more powerful and worse than any person we have ever killed. Stop bringing it up. You’re trying to be cheeky and are far from it, so stop pushing this agenda!” His chest is heaving up and down, face bright red, and I watch as a few hairs unfurl from his normally slicked-back white-blond hair and fall into his stern face.

I glance down at my notebook. For a moment, the page appears unfamiliar. The handwriting isn’t quite mine. The ink is somewhat fresh. A single sentence sits near the bottom.

37 sticks of dynamite. Follow Edward. Do not let him meet with The Collector alone.

I frown. I do not remember writing it. Strange. Perhaps I was tired. That happened occasionally. Moments vanished. Hours disappeared. Entire conversations escaped my recollection.

The physicians called them episodes.

I called them inconveniences. Closing the notebook, I slide it aside. Whatever had compelled me to write such a thing was undoubtedly mistaken. And yet… A peculiar sensation twists within my chest. Possessiveness. Recognition. Something darker. Something watching from behind my own eyes. The feeling disappears as quickly as it arrived. I blink. Then return my attention to the sticks of dynamite, letting the awkward silence fall between my brother and I. After all, there would be plenty of time to think about that peculiar note later. After all there was a person to kill by tomorrow.

“I’m sorry for ruffling your feathers, brother. Will you accept my apology?” Raising an eyebrow at him, I find him arms crossed and with disgruntled features peering at me. His ivory shirt collar is slightly open beneath leather suspenders, and jaggedly scarred forearms have been exposed from rolled sleeves.

“Stop bringing him up. He is worse than Satan himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if Satan shook in his boots when the Collector comes into the room,” he mutters with disdain, as his fingers touch each of my tools on the worktable.

“I’ll listen more. I promise,” I murmur, making a sign of the cross.

He stops in his tracks, and says to me deadpan, “The day you finally listen will be when Hell freezes over. Don’t boldly lie to my face, wanker.” Then he picks up a welding glove and throws it in my direction.

7. A Contract of Life - Edward

Enough, Enough Now

My nerves are shot. Not enough oxygen will enter into my lungs, and I fear they will collapse inward as my chest tightens with terror. Every time I must meet with the Collector, my body reacts this way. A pathetic response. An involuntary one. With a man like him, fear is a weakness you never wish to display. Bracing my hands atop my knees, I force myself to breathe through the panic while standing alone in the alleyway. In.

Out.

In.

Out. The trembling eventually subsides. Not entirely, but just enough that I may face my walking fear. The Collector entered our lives when Alcott and I were adolescent boys. Before him, life was cruel. After him, life became survivable. That distinction is important.

Our upbringing was cold, unstable, and filled with every variety of suffering a child should never endure. I did my best to shield my brother from the worst of it. Sometimes I succeeded.

But far too often, I failed. Our parents were addicts. Alcohol. Opium. Morphine. Anything capable of drowning reality.

When they ran out of money, they sold everything they owned. When they ran out of possessions, they sold us. I remember Alcott trying to smile through it. As though pretending it wasn’t happening would somehow make it hurt less.

I hated that smile.

Not because of him. Because I knew why he wore it. One winter evening, the debt collectors finally arrived. The shouting started first. Then the screaming. Then the gunshots. I covered Alcott’s ears before the second shot ran out. A pointless gesture, for you cannot protect someone from sounds they have already heard or sights they have already seen. By the end of the night our parents were dead, though their debt was not. That was the first time I met the Collector. I remember his shoes. An odd thing to recall, perhaps, but trauma does strange things to memory.

The polished leather reflected candlelight as he stepped over our mother’s bloodied body. His appearance seemed very young, full of life, and formidable to be someone of vicious reputation.

He did not wear a hint of remorse. Not a flicker of emotion. Just pure calculation. He looked at us the same way a merchant inspects livestock before purchase.

“How old?” He asked cheerfully.

“Fifteen,” I answered. I lied.

His gaze shifted to Alcott. “And him?”

“Ten.” Another lie from my lips.