FREAKY FLASH FRIDAY: The Collector by Michelle Walshe

The first time the boy comes to visit me, his father is with him. The boy leans against him and grips his hand tightly as they stand motionless and stare at me.

I’m lying on the ground. I turn my head from side to side. There are four walls, one is glass, no obvious means of entry or exit. A water bottle stands in the corner. There’s enough space for me to lie lengthways, arms and legs outstretched. I’m eleven years old. I’m not yet tall. I find myself in this strange place and I’ve no idea how I got here.

What are they staring at? Is my hair sticking up? I run my hands over my head. My hair is gone. Shaved to the scalp. The vest and shorts I’m wearing are grey and they’re not mine.

The father drops the boy’s hand as he leans forward. He speaks softly as his fingertips tap the glass pane. “Dima, this is my son Kyle. I hope you will get along.”

Dima is not my name, but I know in a place deep inside that it’s pointless to protest.

The boy stands on tiptoe and drops a fish through a hole in the glass. “For you, Dima.”

It falls to the floor with a thud, sawdust sticking to its silvery fins. I roll away from it. The smell follows me. I don’t like fish. I press my back into the concrete wall, stick my legs out in front of me and clap both hands over my mouth.

“Eat,” the boy whimpers.

“Or what?” I hiss.

The father bangs against the window. I flinch. He grabs the boy, and they leave as quietly as they came. The boy glances back over his shoulder, a whisper of a smile on his face.

Every day after that the boy appears at the same time with a cooked offering. No more fish. His entrance is always theatrical. He parts the grass surrounding my living quarters with both hands, like curtains opening on a stage, then drops his backpack to the ground. He takes food wrapped in foil from it, throws it through the hole in the glass, then watches me ignore the aluminum package. He talks about himself, what he learns at school, how hard he finds it to make friends, how he misses his mother, and he wishes he had siblings.

“I’ll be your friend,” I say, “but you must let me out of here so we can play together in the garden. Climb trees, pick apples, find the river I can hear.”

The boy shakes his head. “My father will never allow it.”

“He need never know.”

“My father knows everything.” The boy’s voice is very small.

“Why are you so worried I won’t eat?”

The boy stands up, grabs his backpack. He won’t meet my gaze. “If you don’t eat-”

I inch closer to the glass on all fours. “I might die?”

“Yes.” The boy hangs his head. “Like the last one.”

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Michelle Walshe began writing in 2018 and her work has been awarded scholarships and bursaries to writing retreats in Iceland, Italy and Greece and her work has been published in literary magazines, newspapers and online and has been awarded funding from The Arts Council of Ireland and other national funding bodies. Her writing website is www.thesparklyshell.com.

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