November 2008
Something to Do With Sebastian by Douglas Lind
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The Collector
by Angie Smibert
Angie has recently given up the corporate world to pursue a life of poverty as a writer. She lives in Roanoke, Virginia with a couple fat cats and a big goofy dog. Angie's work has appeared in Flashquake, Whim’s Place, Flashshot, Best Little Christmas Story of 2006, Appalachian Heritage, Jackhammer, Eternity, Cosmic Landscapes, and several other no doubt now defunct magazines.
Isabella was a voracious collector of beauty, but she rarely paid for it. The servants, each a fine specimen in his or her own right, unpacked her latest acquisition. Cool Carrera marble emerged from the crate. Each line was perfection. Isabella could taste the truth underlying its beauty. She could feel the radiance of her own smile as she read Cesare Borgia's note: "the beauty of love for one who loves beauty beyond all reason." Michelangelo's Cupid took its place in her world between two ancient busts her agents had liberated from an estate in Bologna.
Another acquisition, her mysterious new physician, admired the Cupid, and she appraised them both. Their faces were cool and smooth and perfect, frozen in time.
"Beautiful isn't it?" She dismissed the other servants as she moved toward him.
"Not as beautiful as living flesh and blood," he answered. His eyes were the color of obsidian.
"Why do you collect them?" He gestured to the wide studiolo. She drank in her little world away from the world for a moment. Precious stone vases. Bronze and marble statues. Rare gems. Paintings. They demonstrated her prestige, wealth, and learning in this man's world. However, that's not what drove her to line her studiolo with these things.
"Beauty endures," she finally answered. "All else is transitory."
She did not say what she truly thought, though, that the world was shrouded in brutish ugliness, and earthly beauty was merely the faint imprint of the divine shining through. She was not in the habit of revealing herself to a servant, however lovely, and at this moment she was not interested in philosophical discussion. She led him to the sumptuous divan her agents had found in a Roman villa.
His touch was as cool as marble and his kiss as gentle as silk. His eyes were the color of garnets. The act had a blinding beauty to it. The little death brought an exhilarating oneness and aloneness all at once, but it was ephemeral, usually gone in a heartbeat. This time, however, just as she felt herself shiver and wrap herself around him in a paroxysm of pleasure, she felt his teeth at her neck. Pain and a touch of fear heightened the pleasure. She would keep this one for a while, she thought.
Then, she felt him gently begin to drain her. Her life flowed out of her. In a shimmering, transcendent moment the world stood quiet and expectant, as before a thunderstorm. She felt she stood on the edge of a great truth--as if that ugly shroud around the world would be lifted to reveal what lay beyond.
A piercing light illuminated her, and Isabella realized she was the one wrapped in a shroud. She clawed at the fabric before her eyes. Finally, it ripped. Isabella freed herself and stepped into the light. She bathed in its beauty. The shroud, however, was not done with her. It pulled her back.
She awoke among her collection. Somewhere in the darkness she remembered tasting blood¾and vaguely realized that it was not her own. The statuary stared down at her. And he, her fine physician, was there, watching over her, concerned, his face radiant in its new sheen, no longer as alabaster as the marble. His eyes were now simply brown. She felt her face. It was cool and smooth and perfect. He reassured her that her beauty would endure like that of the Cupid.
The Cupid, however, mocked her. It now seemed a pale imitation of what she'd sensed, of what she now craved. All else seemed transitory. Even the Cupid would someday be dust.
She moved toward the physician again, hoping to return to that shimmering moment, but he did not embrace her.
"We need never know death," he said brushing her cheek. His touch was warm now, nearly human, but his radiance was beginning to fade.
Then, we'll never know true beauty, she realized as she looked around the room. The collection welcomed her to its cold, lifeless ranks. Near tears, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, she backed away from him.
"It seems, physician, I've collected from you more than I bargained for." She chose to laugh and then rang for a servant.
The servant shimmered with a beauty that far surpassed the Cupid. Isabella began her collection anew.
The Collector is copyrighted 2007 by Angie Smibert and may not be reproduced under any circumstances without the author's permission.