Recovered from a cassette tape buried beneath a condemned estate in Northern Ireland.
No name is given- only a label in red ink.
"For those who stay human"
[TAPE BEGINS]
I never hated being human.
That would require passion. A spark.
No.
I was simply bored.
You wake up, you eat, you pretend your skin isn't just a costume stitched over rot and aging bones.
You smile at co-workers. You fear bills.
You fear time.
You fear being unremarkable.
That was my crime, really.
I just wanted more. And i found it.
In the attic of an abandoned building near my workplace.
In a locked room with no handle.
Behind a bookshelf with no titles.
There was a chair. A table and a phonograph.
On the table: a box.
On the box: a note.
It read:
" Record your truth. If its worthy, the collector will come"
I laughed, but i pressed play.
The phonograph wasn't plugged in.
Still, the needle moved.
And it spoke. In my voice.
But saying things i hadn't said yet.
" i am done wearing this face. This flesh. This hum".
" I've seen what comes next "
" it's not death. It's evolution "
Normally, you should run when you hear something like it, right?
But i didn't .
Instead, i took the blank cassette from the drawer, pressed RECORD.....and spoke.
My name doesn't matter. My job doesn't matter. What matter is this:
I watched people for years.
From then on,
I collected their routines. Their weaknesses. Their souls, you could say- but not in a spiritual sense.
In a cataloguing sense. Like bugs pinned to a board.
There was the man who laughed too hard at work jokes, then cried in his car at launch.
The woman who never spoke a whisper but screamed her dreams in her sleep.
The child who dissected their dolls in search of secrets.
I recorded them all. Not with cameras.
With attention.
And eventually...i realized i didn't want to be in the catalog anymore.
I wanted to be above it.
So i returned to the attic. And i played the tape.
That night, i had a dream.
A dream that smelled like sulfur and cinnamon.
" you may leave your shell. But you must find another"
I awoke with blood flowing out my mouth and the phonograph gone.
In it's place: a black notebook.
Inside:
Names. Ages. And beneath each....a date,
Birthdays?
No.
Extraction dates.
The first time i tried it , i followed the name at the top of the list.
A university student, alone in the library.
He looked tired.
Just like me, once.
I sat across from him.
And asked him one question:
" Are you tired of being human?"
He looked up.
His mouth moved, but no sound came out.
And then i stepped into him.
No ritual. No spells.
Just permission.
And when i left...he was still there.
Breathing. But not alive.
He is now an echo. An empty voice box.
Since then, I've collected thirty-nine.
Some were easy. Some fought.
But in the end,all of them.....let me in.
Because that's what the collector is.
Not a monster. Not a god.
A whisper.
A curator of those who can no longer stand their reflection.
I don't walk in one body anymore.
I flicker.
I appear in dreams, reflection, voices or phones that no one called.
I lived behind blinking eyes, inside yawns too long to be natural.
I sit beside you when your mind drifts.
I speak when your lips say things you didn't mean to say.
I'm not cruel. Am just tired.
And now I'm recording the final truth.
Because the collector- the real one has started watching me.
You see, i thought i was the only one.
But the last name in the notebook....
Is mine.
There's a knock on the attic door.
But this time, there's no handle,
Only a mirror.
And in that mirror, i see...not me.
Not anymore.
But something standing tall in a reflection that isn't mimicking my movements.
It smiles. It holds the phonograph.
It tilts its head.
And it says:
"Are you tired yet?"
END NOTE (Typed on a burnt slip of paper attached to the cassette):
For every soul that leaves the cycle, a new collector is chosen.
Curiosity is the key.
Boredom is the door.
- A.
Kai.( leaning forward, thoughtful):
He wasn't evil. He wasn't insane.
To me, be was just .....tired.
(Pauses)
It always start with boredom.
That aching silence between thoughts.
And then, something answers.
[@Oviesix: of course the last name in the notebook was his own. Nothing is free after all]
[@642: he catalogued lives like book. Now he's a dusty page in someone else's chapter....Beautiful. Tragic. Deserved]
[@Oviesix: is it bad that i sympathized with him? I've felt that desire to be more than this. Am i broken?]
[@Jaija: no, you're not broken. You're listening. That's what it wants, hehehe]
[@642: why are humans never satisfy?]
Kai ( smirks faintly, almost mournful):
We all feel it sometimes.
That gnawing question: ' is this all there is?'
( he leans closer, voice barely a whisper):
Be careful of how you ask.
Because something might just whisper back
"No, there is more....."
(Sitting up straight, tone shifting):
" and since we're pulling kpen the forbidden doors, let's kick on wide open".
( he reaches behind him and places a cracked child's music box on the desk.
Its key slowly turns on its own)
" next stream? We're diving into the symphony of the tooth and string. A lullaby written by a compser who disappeared mid-performance....but whose music never stopped playing".
(He smiles, pressing a finger on his lips)
"Careful guys"
"You might already knkw the melody"