Page 32 of The Collector
"I know who you are. I've seen you with the Kings—you always come to the club. I wonder if you really believe the police won't figure out it was you who took me? Do you think they won't find you? I might not make it out of here, but every prayer I say, while I'm trapped in this hell, is for one thing. I pray they catch you, so no one else endures your twisted brand of hell on earth." Her voice was broken and raw as she strained to speak.
He smirked faintly, leaning closer, his warm breath rushing across her neck as he replied in a low, taunting voice. "The police won't save you. They barely know you exist. What makes you think I'm stupid enough to leave a trail behind me? Even if they uncover everything, I’ve buried my identity so deep, I’m not the man standing in front of you." He said, his voice low, almost mocking. "You assume you've got me figured out—someone they could trace and easily find. But you're wrong. I'm something else entirely."
He looked at her bruised, bloodied body. Tilting his head, studying her with a mix of amusement and disdain, a smug smirk on his face, as if her defiance was nothing more than an entertaining folly. Shre cringed, pulling her face away from him.
"You think you have power here, trapped like this? Let me tell you something—I control everything. Every scream, every breath you take, belongs to me now." He was eye to eye with her,hatred radiating from his piercing stare; he snapped his teeth at her. She flinched back in fear, turning her head as she did.
He straightened up, his shadow looming over her eyes, gleaming with a twisted sense of satisfaction at her fear. "Keep praying if it makes you feel better. I've heard it all before. Never changes.Your God won't find you here because I'm the only God that matters…in your life now…your prayers have been denied."
She was trying to control the situation, get into his head, make him question his methods, and make him panic. It wouldn't work. He saw through her facade. His gaze remained steady and unwavering, the faint smirk on his lips betraying his amusement at her attempt to shift the balance. He held his ground and remained calm. If anything, her effort was a source of satisfaction, proof of his hold over her.
He walked back around her body, retaking his place on his stool to finish the siren on her back. The siren's song, haunting and inescapable that she had sung to him—its melody laced with deception, each note a calculated step to draw him in closer—had earned her this piece. That song he'd heard from many women over the years spurred his need to kill; it was a challenge, a deadly dance that he refused to lose.
The buzzing tattoo gun faded into silence as he meticulously set it on the tray beside him. Rising from his stool, he stretched his shoulders, feeling the weight of tension from the position he'd held for hours release.
The Collector's steps were measured as he crossed the room to his worktable. The surface gleamed under the overhead light with an array of surgical instruments—scalpels, forceps, and syringes neatly arranged in steel trays before him. Each tool was in its place, clean and gleaming, a stark contrast to the faintly smudged sketches scattered among them. His fingers hovered over the sharp steel edges, their chill palpable, before he reached for a clean pair of gloves. He paused momentarily, his eyesfixed on the tools, which symbolized precision and power, before exhaling quietly. It was time to begin the next phase of his work.
"Wh— what are you doing? I can't take this anymore. Please just let me go; I promise I won't tell anybody about you or what happened here," she begged, barely a whisper through her sobs.
"You promised to give me all the pleasure I could handle, remember? Well, I'm going to get my money's worth. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get what you’re owed. I promise." His laugh echoed ominously as his excitement grew.
It was time to show her, her place.
He pushed the hidden button beneath the worktable, the faint metallic click sending a shiver through the silent room. For a moment, nothing happened, and the stillness hung heavy, almost suffocating. Then, with a sudden, jarring roar, the retractable metal wall behind him groaned to life. The grinding of gears filled the air, reverberating like thunder as the wall slowly rolled upward, inch by agonizing inch.
The dim overhead light flickered as the wall moved to unveil a macabre masterpiece. Thirty-two squares of tanned human skin stretched taut, their surfaces adorned with inked designs that seemed almost alive under the shifting light. Each box held a story carved into human flesh in ink, a permanent echo of his meticulous artistry. All quilted together into the perfect installation of art.
He watched her as she took in the masterpiece behind him. The fear in her eyes was intoxicating, surging through him like a drug. She wrapped around him, pulling him under and submerging him in a twisted kind of bliss that made his pulse quicken and his breath hitch. At that moment, her terror wasn't just visible—it was alive, feeding something dark and insatiable within him. The need was almost unbearable.
He saw it in her eyes… the moment she realized there was no hope of escaping her fate. And that soon, all that would remainof her would be a pretty canvas stretched to perfection on his wall.
"Oh, my God— Please, you don't have to do this. I won't say a word to anyone, I promise."
She screamed. Blood dripped from her wrists as she swung back and forth in an attempt to get free. Her screams tore through the room, raw and unrelenting, each one sending a shudder down her body, almost like it convulsed. The vein on the side of her neck throbbed violently, a stark rhythm of her desperation, as sweat mingled with the blood trickling from her wrists. Her movements grew erratic, her mind slipping further into delirium, the world around her blurring into a haze of fear.
He turned back to the mural, breathing deeply, recalling the fear with which he created each piece and the precision with which he had cut the skin from bone.
A shiver of delight ran down his spine. He had just broken Sugar— beautifully.
The air grew colder as he stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the gruesome mural. He ran a gloved finger along the edge of one canvas, his touch lingering as a flicker of pride mixed with something far darker. Desire overtook him.
The beauty was exhilarating, their essence more satisfying than any other earthly substance. Her silence was deafening now, broken only by the faint creak of the wall as it locked into place. His creations were testaments to his artistry, obsession, and power. The room felt heavy with unspoken horror, the grotesque beauty of the display standing as both an achievement and a thrilling reminder of past conquests. He exhaled slowly, the sound almost reverent.
His art was his legacy, one that would never fade, etched forever into the stolen flesh of his victims.
Turning back to his tools, he picked up the scalpel—his favorite tool.
Not just yet.Now came the part The Collector really enjoyed. He sat it back down just for a moment. And picked up two syringes.
"You're going to want to be awake for the next part so you can see what we created together, but I need you to be still," he said, "so I have two things to help you. Adrenaline and Paralytic."
She kicked and flailed her body like a fish on a hook, struggling for freedom, deep gouges forming where the cuffs held her in place, and she began gushing blood down her arms in streams as he administered the drugs.
It didn't take long for the paralytic to kick in. Sugar's eyes stared back at him in glossy, wide-eyed terror.
"I think it's only fair you know what's going to happen to you, so I'm happy to explain before we get started," he said, walking back to her with his scalpel in hand.
"First, I'm going to remove the skin from your back so it can go up next to the others." He indicated to the wall. Walking around behind her, he sliced into her skin. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment, feeling the adrenaline rush beginning to release in his body. Opening his eyes, he continued the process of removing the skin, each flick of the knife separating the skin from muscle, feeding his pulsing release.