She would have been just another lovely face sipping a caffeinated brew in a street café if Max had not caught her tucking her auburn hair behind her ears. Most men’s ears curved at their tips. Hers tapered at their tips like an elf’s, shimmering like crown jewels to his eyes. He bought a latte and took the table behind her, holding the cup over his lips while his other hand groped his bag for his tools. He chuckled when his fingers touched the jar and metallic implements. His cup was half-empty when she picked up her bag and pushed her chair back. He counted to ten before leaving his table.
He walked many paces back, watching her red hair shining amidst a throng of brunette and blond pedestrians, feeling as if he was dragging huge metal balls strapped to his ankles. Twice he looked around to a voice calling him but heard only the roar of motor vehicles and the voices of hundreds.
Street signs and store displays had as much appeal as a torn dollar bill to him, but he read them more as she approached an apartment block with few cars and people on the streets. He stopped when she turned left into an apartment with flaking paint and thick columns on its façade. He sneered. Old buildings had aged locks that caused little trouble for his hooks and rakes. He watched her push a key into the main door and step inside.
He kept his head low and took slow steps like someone coming home from a double shift as he approached the apartment. Light was flowing from inside through a gap between the door and the threshold. The door yielded with a slight push. He surveyed the hallway. There was no elevator and the two doors to either side were too humble to be apartment doors. Sharp footsteps were echoing on the stairway winding around the atrium. The woman was wearing stilettos. He stepped on the stairs.
“Hello, Ear Collector,” a woman said.
Max did not hear the voice from outside but from within his head. Twenty bodies had turned up with no ears across the state over the past year and the police branded Max the Ear Collector. He would stare at his collection of ears floating in jars of formaldehyde like someone admiring a canvas painted over by van Gogh. “I’m a connoisseur, not a collector of cheap goods.”
The footsteps grew louder but never seemed to go far. Horrified, he watched his feet following the sound. He glanced back at the stairs. Light fell only on a few steps before darkness swallowed the stairway.
“Of course you are. Come to my room.” She giggled.
“Who are you?” Max pulled out the retractable knife from his bag.
“See my world, so you will know.” She said mockingly, “Careful with the knife.”
Max’s fingers gripping the knife snapped open, and the blade clattered to the floor.
“Where will you put my ears? In the prettiest jar, adorned by flowers?”
“I’m going to wear them around my neck when I’m through with you,” he snarled.
“Watch your feet following me. Listen to your heart screaming in fear. Feel your body trembling.” Her laughter was as sinister as the darkness building around Max. “You are my captive, my puppet that I can pull whichever way I please.”
Max’s feet stopped at a door that opened on its own.
“Max.”
Max stared with mouth agape at the tall crown glittering atop her red hair and the rings sparkling in her delicate fingers. He forgot his threat to wear her ears as a necklace from watching the little gemstones embedded on her gown glittering. The gown curved at every curve of her body. He smacked his lips as his eyes went from her face, down to her bosom, her hips. Down his sight went until it stopped on a big jar resting at her feet.
“This is for you,” she tapped the jar with her feet. “You see ears as trophies. I see heads as pricier than crowns. No, not just any head, but heads with great evil in them.” She started stroking her neck.
Max grabbed his neck as blood spurted from his throat. He screamed from an invisible blade cutting the sinews and bones in his neck while she laughed and laughed.
*****
Max wished he could see more than the man’s sneakers, jeans, and shirt whose designs were similar to the shoes and shirt he favored over other styles. A backpack, identical to his favorite bag, was lying by the man’s side. He started chuckling and looked down to see if he was wearing identical attire as the man sprawled on the floor. His mouth frothed with bubbles when he screamed.
The woman tapped the jar. “You have all the centuries to revisit this day, Max.”
– by Prospero Pulma, Jr.
Issue 12 Volume 3
February 2014
fiction and poetry 
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