He touched the small console by the door. A holographic receipt materialized in the air:
He opened it.
He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the closet door. Tomorrow night, the regret would begin to seep back in. A new argument. A new silence. The same guitar. waste pickup
“Payment,” it said.
Leo swung his legs out of bed and padded barefoot across the cold concrete floor. The closet door in his studio apartment had a faint, sickly green glow seeping from its edges. He could hear it moving in there—a soft, wet shuffling, like a stack of old photographs being stirred by a damp breeze. He touched the small console by the door
A heavy, rhythmic knock came at the door. Three thuds, a pause, then two more. Tomorrow night, the regret would begin to seep back in
Leo held out his left hand. The Collector produced a small, silver blade from its coat—not a weapon, a tool. It made a tiny, precise cut on Leo’s index finger. A single drop of blood welled up, pearlescent and strangely heavy. The Collector caught it in a vial, then licked the blade clean. Leo felt a flash of vertigo, as if he’d just forgotten something important. That was the payment: not blood, but the memory of the cut. He’d never remember the pain. He’d never learn from it.
© Copyright Lloyds 2014