Коллекционер

           Idon’tknowwhy,Ibegantothinkherbeingdeadwasallamistake,perhapsshehadjustbeenasleep.SoIhadtogodowntomakesure.Itwashorrible.SoonasIwentdownintheoutercellarIstartedimaginingthings.Likeshemightstepoutofacornerwithahatchet.Orshewouldnotbethere—eventhoughthedoorwasboltedshewouldhavevanished.Likeinahorror-film.

           Shewasthere.Lyingthere,allinthesilence.Itouchedher.Shewassocold,socolditgavemeashock.Istillcouldn’tunderstanditwastrue,howshe’dbeenlivingonlyafewhoursbefore,andjustafewdaysbackwalkingabout,drawing,doingherknitting.Andnowthis.

           Thensomethingmovedattheotherendofthecellar,backbythedoor.Itmusthavebeenadraught.Somethingbrokeinme,Ilostmyhead,Irushedoutandfellupthestairintheoutercellarandout.Ilockedthedoordowndoublequickandgotintothehouseandlockedthatdoorandalltheboltshome.

           Afterawhiletheshakingstopped,Icalmeddown.ButallIcouldthinkwashowthiswastheend.Icouldn’tlivewithherdowntherelikethat.

           ItwasthenIgottheidea.Itkeptoncomingback,thisfeelingthatshewasluckytobedonewithitall,nomoreworries,nomorehiding,nomorethingsyouwanttobeandwon’teverbe.Butfinished,thelot.

           AllIhadtodowaskillmyself,thentheotherscouldthinkwhattheyliked.Thepeopleinthewaiting-room,theAnnexepeople,AuntAnnieandMabel,allofthem.Iwouldbeoutofit.