The Heart Collector

‘The locals, they call me a collector of hearts. That’s how you’ll hear them refer to me. Springs up a pretty little image of a playboy, a man who’ll use and discard women at the drop of a hat, doesn’t it? Shame my physical presence doesn’t do much to support this, but don’t just disregard the things you’ve heard on appearances alone, because you really have no idea.

People flit in and out of this town as frequently as the weather changes. Nobody ever stays for very long, save for us locals that is. Maybe they’ve heard what we never did, that once you settle here you’re there for life. No matter how determined you may be, you just won’t be able to tear yourself away from our peaceful lifestyle. It has a way of sucking you in.

A lot of the older residents couldn’t even care less what happens in the world outside of our insular little town. So if you want to keep some shred of your old life in tact, then make your visit a flying one. Stay a day or two at the most, enjoy our laid back, sleepy little seaside town for what appearances make it and then move along.

Trust me, you really don’t want to linger for too long...

I always pick the new ones. The ones that stay for about a week, a few sandwiches short of a picnic and desperate for attention. They come to tan on our deserted beaches, frying their little brains in the sun, as if the peroxide hadn’t burnt away enough of them already. They all look like perfect little Barbie dolls stretched out on their multicoloured beach towels, the epitome of media perfection, hardly a stitch of the person they used to be left visible on their skin.

They know that I’ll adore them from the instant they see me coming; how could I not when they look so perfectly divine? Their interest in my attention is almost teasing to begin with, a man like me could never really have a girl like that, but if I proffer them my money for food, wine and clothes they’ll entertain my affections. After all they’re only on holiday, what harm can there be in a little fun with material benefits?

If only they knew the real secrets our quiet little town holds. They’ll learn of course, they all do, but by then it’s always far too late.

They feel so bold, so sadistically proud to be playing this poor, foolish man for everything he’s got. Frittering away his hard earned cash on pettiness; leading him on with never the intention to give him what you think he really desires.

Take every opportunity to flaunt it in my face, play the perfect tease. Does it make you feel powerful my love? Well enjoy the feeling while it lasts.

After years of practice I can play the used man down to a T, and I know there will come a point where you just won’t be able to refuse me any more. The key is simply timing. On the ‘last day‘ of your holiday I just know that you won‘t refuse my offer of dinner. I’ll cook this time, no more restaurants for us, an intimate little setting in which to say goodbye. I know that you’ll accept, what’s a free meal and drinks? Worth it, even if it does mean being alone in my company for a night.

I’ll begin with a faltering attempt at seduction, every clichéd line in the book. Don’t question my skills, I know exactly what it is I’m doing. But you’ll listen with a polite grimace, accept my food and greedily lap up my wine. Do you even taste that it’s a Micky Finn?

It’s not long before the drugs begin to tug at your eyelids, though I can barely comprehend a difference in your dreamy, air headed speech. The fork falls from your hand, clatters against the plate and falls to the floor, a chunk of steak still impaled upon it’s prongs. You got grease on my carpet.

I’ll frown at the oily, yellow stain as you slump back in your chair. Heavy lidded eyes almost completely closed and your mouth finally halted in it’s spewing of incessant drivel to loll open, a gormless expression on your once so pretty face. The drugs never make them look pretty, always like plastic dolls left too close to an open flame, melted and sagging. If only you could see yourself now.

You’ll repay me for everything you cost me, for the food, the wine and the clothes. For the stain on my carpet that no amount of cleaning will ever remove. “Guess it’s time for a change again,” I’ll say, the words almost a sigh. Can you hear me over the blood rushing in your ears? Watch me as I go over to the dresser and slide open one of the drawers? “White is probably the worst choice of colour and yet I just can’t bring myself to have anything different.”

No reaction to my words, but I wasn't really expecting there to be? “Still, as it’s already stained, we’ll not worry about the mess.” I’ll hiss, gripping your straw like hair and tipping your eyes back to look at me. See the flash of silver as I toy with the blade? There, some glimmer of fear sparkling in the depths of your baby blues. Do we understand now?

A lesson learned all too late, play with peoples hearts and it won‘t be long before someone will play with yours. They call me the collector of hearts for that is my passion, and now it’s is yours that I shall take.

I am this town's dirty little secret, the one that you’ll die to keep.'