Коллекционер

           Youhithisconscienceanditgives,butitdoesn’thurthimatall.Iamashamed,hesays;IknowIought,hesays.Itoldhimhedidn’tlookawickedperson.Hesaid,thisisthefirstwickedthingI’veeverdone.

           Itprobablyis.Buthe’sbeensavingup.

           SometimesIthinkhe’sbeingveryclever.He’stryingtoenlistmysympathybypretendinghe’sinthegripofsomethirdthing.

           ThatnightItriednotbeingdecent,beingsharpandbitchyinstead.Hejustlookedmorehurtthanever.He’sverycleveratlookinghurt.

           Puttingthetentaclesofhisbeinghurtaroundme.

           Hisnotbeingmy"class."

           IknowwhatIamtohim.Abutterflyhehasalwayswantedtocatch.Iremember(theveryfirsttimeImethim)G.P.sayingthatcollectorsweretheworstanimalsofall.Hemeantartcollectors,ofcourse.Ididn’treallyunderstand,IthoughthewasjusttryingtoshockCaroline—andme.Butofcourse,heisright.They’reanti-life,anti-art,anti-everything.

           IwriteinthisterriblenightlikesilenceasifIfeelnormal.ButI’mnot.I’msosick,sofrightened,soalone.Thesolitudeisunbearable.EverytimethedooropensIwanttorushatitandout.ButIknownowImustsaveupmyescapeattempts.Outwithim.Planahead.

           Survive.

           October16th

           It’safternoon.Ishouldbeinlifeclass.Doestheworldgoon?Doesthesunstillshine?Lastnight,Ithought—Iamdead.Thisisdeath.Thisishell.Therewouldn’tbeotherpeopleinhell.Orjustone,likehim.