The First Bit of Fiction

This is a bit of an odd piece. It's inspired by two things; 1) These drawings, and 2) this song. That should give you the right atmosphere.

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I'm A Painful Truth.

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I'm a collector.

You don't know me.

You never will, though I know you.

I know the origin of the chain around your neck (belonged to your mother, though she never wore it, never wanted it. Never wanted to be chained to your father like that, with his fists and his knuckles and the flat of his palm, and the light that only whiskey brought to his eyes.)

I know the origin of your boyfriend's tattoo, Clara, black and dripping on his wrist. It scatters ground glass on your heart when you see it.

I know the origin of her tombstone, too. (Granite. Stirling Hill.)

I know the origin of the bell above my door. It was first rung on a Saturday. By another Clara, funnily enough. She'd only been dead a few hours.

Go on, take a look around. No hurry.

There's a cabinet, do you see it?

Yes, that one.

Antique, you know. I got it in London, just before it burnt up. Would have been a waste of time, really, if I hadn't seen it in the window, but I did, so it wasn't. Beautiful thing, isn't it? Go on, you can touch. This isn't a museum, for somebody's sake. Go on, have a look. Tell me what you find.

First drawer. Labelled 27. Contains fourty-five shattered egg timers and a length of string.

Second drawer. Labelled 7:3. One apple seed and a blonde hair, in a twist of brown paper.

Third drawer. Labelled “D: Even More Appalling”. Sixty four teeth, including four slightly curved canines, the tips brown-stained.

Fourth drawer. Labelled “JTR.”-;

That's enough now.

I know the origin of all of it. You do too, if you think about it.

Not many people do.

You see, I get a lot of people through here. Nobody really likes to look. Run in and out, they do.

Not that I mind, exactly.

I can see why.

Mind if I take your photograph, sweetheart?

Oh, just for the collection.

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-Alice