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The collective : III

Italic can be background talk during a flashback. 

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He remembered how cold it was while he was standing, huddled in the corner waiting for him. The first half an hour was tough, but the next hour and a half felt unbearable. He could feel the frostbite on his feet. Then when he taught all hope was lost, he saw his guy.

"He was only dressed in monk robes!" "Yeah, monks tend to do that. Continue," the excitement in his voice died down and he said, "then he asked me to come into his house.

"I know you might be eager to know child, but come in, or that frostbite you are feeling on your feet will take your toes," the man said with a smile. George was hesitant at first, but once he looked at that man's own toes and realized he had none, he hurried in.

The house didn't have much in it, not that it had space for much to begin with. George could only spot a thermostat, a small gas stove, a teacup, and some scrolls, excluding the table at the center. At least it was nicely lit. He took off his shoes, as is the custom these countries, and sat as comfortably as one with irritated feet can near the table. The man came a moment later with a small foot basin filled halfway with warm water and put it next to him.

"For your feet," he said

He dipped his feet in it, and he decided, that that was objectively the best thing that had happened to him in the past five years.

"He seemed like a nice man. He offered me tea and soon enough got into the business."

"So, how can I be of service?' George dried his feet with his jacket, and he adopted a serious tone, "I was told you knew about an organization called the collective?" "Yes, I guess you could say that" George tried not to get too excited. "It's still too early," "Can you tell me about them? They did something to my wife, and I am trying to find out."

"No."

"What?" George asked, wondering if he had misheard the man "No. Look child, I don't know how you came down this trail but I will not lead you down any further. If 'they' had anything to do with your wife, dead or alive, then consider her wiped off the map."

"Then what did you do?"

What did he do? The memory was fresh before but now was dulled by all the alcohol. What was left was the overwhelming fear that that was the end, the blinding rage, and the utter shame that followed soon after. Not to forget the document with all filled all these names — her name in the mix also — and the sight of the old man on the floor, bloodied and struggling to breathe, that's still etched into his mind.

"I did what I had to do," he stated blankly,

"Look at me in the eyes," he didn't respond, "Look at me in the eyes and repeat what you just said!" That might not be his wife, but that was still her voice, her face. He felt shame slowly build up as her screams continued, "He was just an old man George! What the fuck happened to you?" "I'll tell you what the fuck happened, YOU DIED! YOU DIED AND TOOK MY DAUGHTER AND EVERYTHING I LOVED WITH YOU! Then I get a hint of this organization and the possibility for an explanation or you being alive. So, what if I had beat an old man to death to know what happened to you and her. You can fucking sue me!"

"She still alive,"

"What?"

She looked at him, and he felt lightheaded and dazed. The whole world started to collapse on itself and reform to a room. It was colored pink, toys all around, and a crib in the corner, rocking slowly. He couldn't bring himself to go and look, but he didn't need to. Soon enough, the room started changing, and everything became a blur. The child started crawling then walking. The number of toys became less and less till there were none. The color of the room gradually changed to beige. When everything stopped moving, she was on the bed, legs crossed with a Tolstoy on her lap, smiling at him. Just as he was going towards her, he felt a hard tug from behind, pulling him back to the real world and out of his mind.

"She has your eyes,"

"And she has your smile," he replied with a smile of his own.

"I've told her all about you. She's obsessed with you, I'd say. I'm sort of jealous, to be honest," he chuckled, tears welling up in his eyes, "You can meet her...." Maybe he sh— "....if you just joined us, George. We coul—"

He chuckled, then it turned to full-blown laughter. He laughed so hard that his body started to hurt. He looked at her now bored expression and said. "So, that's what this is all about? To make me join your fan club so that I won't expose you because I know too much? Now I am a threat huh?" she sighed, then he heard her voice in his head, slightly disappointed.

"You are naive and self-obsessed to the extent that is disgusting, even for your species."

She looked uninterested but continued, "You act like you're all-knowing and the master of your own sense," She looked at him, her once hazel eyes now black and dotted with bright colors and stars. "Let's start simple then, shall we? Break that unearned sense of control of yours," he felt his heart sink, "For one, we never really left you're flat." Suddenly the colors and structures of the world around started to mix together like before then with a hard inhale, he awoke up on the floor of his apartment.

She looked down at him, her eye still fixed on his soul. Her voice continued, "Secondly, the man you met in Tibet...", the picture of the man's body flashed in his head, ".... yes, that one, was Gedun Drupa, the first Dalai Lama of Tibetan Buddhism. Born in 1319, died in 1474, a fact you would've noticed with even with your vague knowledge on the subject if you haven't been so consumed with your assumptions and pride," She chuckled, "I mean I you saw what I can do and yet you still always thought you have the higher ground," "What is this!" he screamed to himself. She stood him up without a touch, cleaned the dust off his shoulders, and finally spoke,

"A lesson."