Collectors

“I’m dying.” Said the voice.

I faltered in my steps, and then paused all together. People all around me pushed past, brushing against me with their thick long coats that covered them from head to toe. The streets and sidewalks were a swarm of puffy grey figures wrapped in wool coats.

I clutched the phone tighter and turned, glancing around the square. Everyone was moving, no one stood still. It was dizzying.

“Is anyone there?” The voice mumbled, it was a man, maybe younger, but older than me perhaps, and he sounded sad. There was a ragged breath that he dragged into his lungs—it sounded painful, and the muffled exhale fuzzed up the receiver, sounding like static on the radio for a moment.

I had answered the phone thinking it would be Denny, he needed to speak to me about some open studio he wanted me to attend. He phoned me this morning when I was asleep and left a message.

“Anyone?” he said again, and there was a tremble in his voice that gave me the impression he was in pain.

“Who is this?” I asked, glancing around the square again before stepping into one small brightly lit tourist shop that was cramped and sold little snowy New York globes, but at least was sheltered from the rain. The bright flashy advertisements beamed and shimmered from outside and I turned my back on them, facing two men arguing in another language, shoving and waving an object in each others faces with exaggerated exasperation. I turned away form them too and faced a wall of white and red I Heart NY, tee shirts instead.

There was no answer, only a gagging cough and another wheezing breath.

“How did you get this number?” I asked, fingering the lousy fabric of the starched oversized shirts, hoping maybe this was a joke Jackie had thought up.

“I dialed randomly, I just picked any numbers and punched them in. You picked up.” I frowned and huddled deeper into the shop, past the arguing men, to get away from a particularly cold wind. It was a horrid day, rain misted all of the city and made everything damp and uncomfortable. I would have taken a cab, but I was saving the money for a coffee later today.

I focused on the sounds echoing from the other line, listening for the sounds of sniggering on the other end—any indication of some ridiculous prank. But all I heard was the labored breathing of the boy. Twenty, maybe. So not a boy anymore.

“Didn’t you hear me?” He said, but his voice was strained, contained. “I think I’m dying.” If this person really was in any danger, he’d hardly make up any number and ring it. He’d call Nine-One-One.

“You need to call the police.” I said, glancing at the now fogged windows of the small shop, too tall for it’s tiny floor space, and the men had stopped arguing, and the one wearing a dirty sweater and a smudged baseball cap turned backwards remained behind the cashier’s desk looking bored. It would only be a matter of time before he stared snooping in on my conversation to entertain himself.

“I don’t want the police.”

“You said you’re dying. “

“I am dying.” He sounded tired, I heard a movement where he shifted his body, and there was the distinctive sound of crunching of gravel.

“If so, you should contact the police, they can help you.”

“ I said I’m dying. Not that I wanted to live.”

There was a heavy silence, and the shopkeeper had turned and was now listening with an intrigued expression. I glanced at him over my shoulder, then walked out of the shop and into the endless stream of people that always seemed to be in Times Square, and back into the depressing weather. Maybe I’d get that coffee now, god knows I needed it, and I wanted to get out of this drizzle.

“I have a bad infection. I fell in the ravine trying to get away, and the pier sliced me open. I’ve had a fever for days now, this is the first time I’ve been conscious for some time. It hurts so badly…” He moaned, and there was another muffed crunch of rocks.

“I can’t help you.” I said, feeling an intense wave of sadness. I can’t help you over the phone. But I could if you were here…

“Yes you can. I just want to talk. I just don’t want to be alone. It’s cold here…” He mumbled, and his voice trailed off at the last sentence, as if he were falling asleep.

“I’ll call the ambulance, tell me where you are.” I wished desperately that I could help, but there was nothing I could do. Was it a coincidence that this dying boy called me, when I could see the dying, days before they passed?

“I don’t need an ambulance,” he said. “I need you.”

I shook my head sadly then turned around another corner, trying to escape the crowds and disappear down one of the more deserted streets. I couldn’t help him, if that is what he wanted.

“I don’t want that help. I want your voice. I don’t want to be saved, I told you that.” I stopped, holding the phone tighter, wondering how he had possibly known what kind of help I had wanted to give him. I started walking again, but cautiously, as if he were lurking behind one of these corners. I quickly realized that was silly and continued at a normal pace. “What’s your name? Can I know your name?” I thought for a moment, thinking of the harm a name can cause.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Is it—is it Amelia?” He asked, “No, no,” He mumbled quickly, more to himself than me. “No, it’s…” He trailed off, thinking as if it was just out of his grasp. I looked up to find the familiar street where my shabby apartment was located. I paused at the end of the avenue, wondering if I should avoid my apartment for now. He could be following me. I glanced around quickly, but no one was in sight. “I’m not watching you.” He said suddenly. “I don’t know who you are, or where you live.” He said and I felt a cold drop of fear slid into my stomach like an ice cube. I glanced around again. The boy seemed to have forgotten about his search for my name. But just as I thought that he added: “You’re name is Amber isn’t it? I like that name.”

I shivered, was it possible he could speak the fears running through my mind? Who was this person? I felt an intense urge to throw the phone, to run away from it and come back later to stomp it to bits, but only when the boy had left the other end.

“Don’t leave.” He said quickly, and for the first time since his first words I could sense a pain there. A burning, rotting pain. An infection. He probably had an infection; he had a fever, which meant it was bad. His skin around his wound was probably blackened from lack of care—getting eaten away by tiny bacteria particles. That was all it took to destroy a human—such a beautiful, incredible creation beaten by something unseen, with no purpose or brain. He was probably in immense pain; infections make you feel as if you were burning alive.

I imagined him sitting alone by a cold rainy riverbed, slowly dying of something that could so easily be prevented.

“Don’t worry about me.” His voice broke through my thoughts, and again it seemed he could hear them. “I’m alright with dying, it’s not as scary as it seems. Anything is better than going back…” His voice trailed off again, but this time in a grunt of pain and more crunch of gravel.

“Where are you? Where do you not want to go back?” I wanted so intensely to reach through the phone, to throttle this stranger and comfort him at the same time.

He laughed wearily, weakly, and I wondered if he was laughing at the image in my mind or something else. “I’m no where. Forget about me. Just…talk. Tell me about something.” His voice was tight and strained, pain laced with every word. I stopped at my apartment building, thinking franticly of something to tell him, anything.

“I have an art showing today.” I offered quickly. It sounded more like a question than an answer.

“What kind of art?” He asked desperately, and I imagined him with his eyes shut tight and his jaw flexed with the pain of a dying body.

“Nothing special. Just stuff. But a friend of mine Dan—…” I quickly revised Danny’s name, this person was still a stranger, dying or not. “…Er, I mean Devin, set the whole thing up. Hopefully people will buy some of my crap so I can eat today.” I joked weakly, almost as desperate as he was for a response. He was silent.

“I like you Amber.” He said finally, as if he suspected before he made this call he would not take a liking to me. I shivered again in the cold drizzle at the mention of my name. My actual name.

There was the muffled sound of movement on the other end. “Hold on.” He muttered, and it sounded like he put the phone down. The sound of a bottle, a rattling shuffled over the line to my ears.

“What’s that?” I asked, scared as much as curious. He shook the bottle in the ear of the phone again.

“This?” He asked in answer, shaking the rattle again. “Pills,” He answered.

“Pills?” I echoed, unsure what use they could help him now. An overwhelming feeling of dread washed over me like cold water. “You’re not trying to…are you?” Please say, no. I begged silently. He was thoughtfully quiet for a moment, the rattling noise gone.

“It will only make things quicker.” He said finally, in gentler tone, as if trying to soothe me.

“You said you had an infection. Not that you were overdosing.” I tried to keep my voice calm, but I was failing miserably.

“I’m going to die either way.” He told me, and I gripped the phone with an overpowering sadness. Giving up was never the answer. It made me angry when people threw something so precious away because the other direction was difficult. “I’m not giving up.” He said, and I got the feeling he was listening to more than just the words I spoke. “It’s better than if they find me, trust me.” How could he ask me to trust him? It seemed laughable. Confusion was crushing me, my mind in continuous painful pounding chorus of drums.

“Who are they?” I asked finally, feeling numb as the clack and rattle of pills filled over my words.

“People I hope you never meet, but if you don’t it would be a miracle. It’s only a matter of time before they find you too.” More confusion, anger and horror. What was he talking about? I felt as if I were a lone puzzle piece without my companions to build a full image.

I listened on the other end, waiting for him to say more while he waited for me to reply. Life is an endless wait. A pause in time while you wait for your future, or the inevitable. There is not a single person on the planet who does not wait for tomorrow. Sometimes tomorrow never comes, sometimes it does.

“There’s a man.” The voice says again, and I startle out of my thoughts, there is a considering factor in his voice, and I wonder if he again was listening to my thoughts. I couldn’t deny the possibility, a person who can read minds, and although the very idea is startling and undeniably unbelievable, I have to consider what I can do. What I see. Nothing is impossible. It’s the first inspiring thing anyone’s parents say to their dismal child when they fail. The sad thing is the parents probably don’t believe that little insignificant saying; they probably have a lifetime of impossible. Anything is possible, but it has to exist first. “His name is Terrance Raycoves. I want you to stay away from him, Amber. I know what you can do, and some people don’t deserve to live. They don’t deserve your help.” A cool trickle of ice seems to slowly devour my body, how can he know? My mind spins and I feel dizzy and nauseous, but I finally manage weakly: “Who are you?”

The question is in as much desperation as anger and confusion. But he doesn’t answer, there is commotion on the other line. It is horrible frustrating not to know what is happening, and it is in times like these where I realize how much I rely on all my senses, not just one like hearing. There are distant shouts, dogs and motors. I hear the terrifying growl of rabid dogs, angry determined men, and rumbling machines. I hear the boy, the man, the person who confessed to dying, who was so sure death was his only option, move, and the crunch of gravel following those moments along with a long stream of desperate terrified swearing. I strain, and shout into the line. When his voice returns it’s hushed and urgent. I want to cry out of pure overwhelming emotions.

“Amber, listen to me. Hear me, and actually listen. Don’t ever answer this phone again, throw into a river, crush it. Anything. Destroy it. I’m sorry, Im so sorry for putting you in danger. I thought I would be dead before they found me. I would rather be dead, but nothing works out how things are planned. Get a new phone; I’ll know the number. If I ever get out I’ll find you, and help you. Don’t trust anybody, not even me. Ditch the phone. Don’t answer it.” The sound of dogs came closer, the sound of his breathing hitched, and fear was apparent even without his voice to give it away. Men’s shouts became clearer. “Get him. Get HIM. He’s talking to someone. Call Raycove, tell him we’ve found subject six-two-nine.”

“Bye.” His voice was small, and whispered, with such an intense sadness that I felt as if he had soaked it up through a sponge.

And then the line went dead. I felt an overwhelming ripple of grief wash over me, and the rain pelted down in long slippery drops now, the cold ached through my legs and bones. I stood there, staring at the door of my apartment building, not trying to comprehend what just happened, and I realized within my cocoon of numbness that the phone was once again ringing in my cold hand. I stared at the devise, vibrating and flashing like a hissing animal warning to stay away. The boy had warned me. Don’t answer the phone. I was frightened, but at the same time stupidly tempted to press answer, to hold the phone next to my ear and listen to an unknown secret unwind, and then I let the phone slip from fingers and disappear down the storm drain that would carry it to the sea.

Sometimes it’s better to forget. Sometimes it’s better to ignore. And sometimes it’s so much easier.