Nodes

I awake to the buzz of absolute silence.

To my right is a window; the brown residue of tape adhesive forming a border along both sides of a crack running the length of the pane. A fly struggles against the glass, bouncing repeatedly against the smoky surface before halting for a moment, only to begin again with renewed vigor, unaware of its ineluctable failure. The sill is littered with the corpses of those that had tried and failed before it.

To my left is a night stand. Its wood has been rubbed smooth as if by the caress of countless hands. On the far side of the stand is empty room. Plain, unadorned walls loom upwards to meet a high ceiling barely coated in thick scabs of paint.

I sit up in the bed and put my feet on the hardwood floor; the naked boards cede their chill to my bare flesh. Glancing about the room, I feel as if I have been dropped into the maw of some forgotten white void. I realize, though, that the emptiness of the room mirrors an even deeper emptiness.

I know not who I am.

---

I stand at the window of my room, looking down at the wet cobblestone street two stories below. A misty rain has been falling since morning. The day before was marked by a sheet of grey that spread across the sky. The day before that was the same, as were all the preceding days since my awakening.

The nights are dark, without moon or starlight. Sputtering gas lamps illuminate the streets with little more than a dull, flickering glow. From time to time, I see a solitary figure walk by along the sidewalk below. My station is too high for me to make out their face, and so I cannot tell if it is one person or many passing by my home.

Other than these (this?) occasional pedestrians, the streets are quiet. Shop fronts remain dim, and apartment windows are shuttered and closed. It is as if this place has been abandoned, with only a few lost spirits remaining to wander the empty avenues.

Am I one of them? Am I spirit, or am I flesh?

Am I lost?

---

A package arrived for me today.

After days or weeks, I know not which, a knock at the door finally drew me from my post beside the window. The figure that appeared in the doorway held a case in one hand and an envelope in the other. I could not see their face, as it remained in shadow beneath the dim lights of the hall. Without a word, I took the case and the envelope, and without a word, The Deliverer left.

The unaddressed envelope had contained a map. The case I had set unopened beside the night stand. I now sit on the bed, looking at the map. Two buildings are clearly demarcated from the rest. One, I assume, indicates the location of this room. The other is several streets away. The map itself fades into a blurry white border at the edges, so it is impossible to tell where the actual borders of the town lie.

Or if it has borders.

It is late; I will go to the place on the map tomorrow.

---

The distance between my home and my destination, as it turns out, was considerable.

The way was lined with empty apartments, boarded shops and factories that stood hulking and silent. My journey was solitary; I passed by not a single inhabitant on my way here. I'm not sure what I would have done or said if I had.

I now stand before yet another empty building. Drab, blockish, built of poured concrete, the structure appears abandoned. The gray color of the exterior is flecked with black weather marks, leaving the impression it had been molded of ash. The grounds are composed of the same functional raked pebbles that I have seen elsewhere in the town. This smooth plane of dust and rocks is only occasionally interrupted by the twisted form of a stunted tree, stripped of its foliage. They seem to be in perpetual hibernation, waiting out an endless winter.

This derelict building seems to be my destination. After staring quietly for a while at the emptiness that stands before me, I shoulder my case and head towards the front entrance. As I enter the building and walk the length of the central corridor, I peek into doorways here and there and realize that this sprawling complex was once a school. Desks, chalkboards and gymnasium - everything is placed in order, as if the school was once used, but then abandoned. Most of the windows are browned with age, several broken or smashed. The rooms are laden with damp dust. Moss grows in the corners between floors and walls. A blanket of stifling quiet covers the campus.

Time seems to stand still here, as everywhere.

I walk through the main front hall, and head deep into the interior of the school. Turning corners and descending stairs as if I had been here before, I arrive at a simple door. A smoked-glass window contrasts with the peeling flakes of paint on wood. On the window is stenciled lettering I do not understand. I grab the knob and open the door, a stiff creak escaping out from its rusted hinges.

I step through into a room that is large, and houses several long counters. The counters hold a number of sinks and small gas burners, spaced out at equal intervals. In the right corner of the room, a rusted shower head juts from the wall, surrounded by the frame for a privacy curtain, although no curtain hangs from it now.

On the opposite side of the room is a large steel door about three times the width of an average door. I step over piles of rubbish to cross the room to that door. A white layer of chipped paint adorns the door. It is worn down to the bare metal around a long, horizontal handle that serves as the door’s knob. As I grasp it, I am surprised by the chill in the metal. I pull on the handle, and it levers outward, releasing its catch on the jamb. The heavy door slides open with minimal effort, and it is followed by a billowing cloud of cold from within.

Before the mist fully clears, however, I am interrupted by a presence in the room. Closing the steel door, I turn to face a person standing by the room’s entrance. I watch as they cross the room to sit on a weathered wooden chair arranged beside a cluttered steel desk. They sit, and they wait, staring at nothing in particular. I hesitate for a moment before walking over to stand beside the desk. I place my case upon the desktop and open it to view its contents for the first time.

The case is designed to zip open and lie flat, revealing its interior so its contents are easy to access. On one half lie a number of long, thin picks, each of a different length and shape, each inserted into its own slot. On the opposite half are a number of labeled glass tubes, each stoppered, and with its label unmarked. There is also what looks like a metal stamp, with numbers arranged on dials so that they may be changed at will, creating any arrangement of eight numbers in sequence. It is currently set to number 07344596.

The figure sits quietly as I take stock of my bag’s contents. I look over and observe for a moment the structure of their face, and then select an appropriate pick from the bag. With practiced and sure movements, I stand before them and gently, but firmly, grasp one side of their jaw with one hand, slightly tilting it back so that they are looking toward the ceiling behind me. With my other hand, I insert the pick into one nostril, and snake it upwards, deep into their skull. I have no recollection of having done this before, and yet my movements are calm and precise. I am searching for something, the thing I am here to collect, that is clear. Even though I don’t know what It is, It is there, and so I move the pick around, feeling for Its presence. My Client gags a moment in pain and discomfort, but does not struggle.

My probe makes contact with what I am looking for; a soft lump that yields to my probing. I twist the pick and, feeling it grab, gently pull at the lump. The Client grabs at the arms of the chair in pain, but remains still as I guide the lump out through the nostril. It finally emerges with a faint, wet sucking noise: a muddy wad of wet flesh. It is cottony, but with a brownish stain, and drenched in a mucousy fluid. It somehow eludes the eyes, appearing indistinct and formless. An urge to study it intently wells up within me, but I realize that the Client still sits nearby. My task is not over. I gently drop the wad into an empty tube, drop a stopper in place, and then return the pick to its sheath. I then pull the number stamp from the bag and carry it over to one of the gas burners.

Lighting the burner, I focus its collar until a hot, blue flame pours out from the stem. I hold the number stamp over the burner, watching the flame dance around its edges as if in a trance. It only takes a minute for the numbers on the metal stamp to heat to a glow, whereupon I quickly turn back to the Client and press it firmly onto their upturned wrist. This time they scream in tortured agony, but once again offer no resistance, nor do they struggle. The smell of seared flesh fills the room, and I pull the stamp away as the sizzling sound subsides. The Client’s wrist is marked with the numbers in raw, red welts. With a pen taken from the bag, I copy those numbers onto the label of the tube. With my work done, the Client silently stands, and without a glance in my direction, turns and leaves the room.

Staring at the now empty chair where my first Client had just been sitting, I ponder this initial collection. Were all townsfolk subjected to this collection? Not really wanting to, but compelled by a curiosity that moves my limbs of its own accord, I turn over my hand to look at the series of numbers burned into the flesh. I have never noticed those numbers before, but they do not come as a surprise to me. Nonetheless, my stomach turns as I look at the puffy scars: 07344572. I look at the stamp I had just used to brand the Client. Only 24 new arrivals since I myself had come here. Not very long.

Or an eternity. How can I know?

I wonder at what has happened to the previous Collector since my arrival. There must have been someone before me; someone burned these numbers into my wrist. My eyes gravitate from those figures in my skin to the fleshy node, just recently removed from its host. I stare at that wet lump for a while, at the numbers printed on the label.

Picking up the tube, I slowly stand and walk back over to the large steel door. I pull the door open and stride into the long, narrow room. Everything is cool and damp, only slightly refrigerated by a dripping cooler humming steadily at the back of the room. Shelves line both walls, running the full length of the storage room, nearly every space covered by row upon row of numbered glass tubes. As I walk into the room, I become aware of a numeric ordering system on the shelves corresponding to the labels on the tubes. I match the numbers on the tube I am carrying to the numbers on the shelf. A space lay open in waiting for the tube, and I set it gently in place.

I look for long moments again at the numbers on my wrist. I look at the numbers on the shelves. One shelf up from where I had just placed my Client’s tube is the shelf with my tube. About halfway back, I see the number 07344572 stenciled in faded pen. The label is discolored, peeling. The tube is browned and smudged with dirt. Had it really been that long since I arrived? It is hard to tell. It only seems like days, but by the looks of the tube, I must have been here for years. I reach back and carefully pluck my tube from its row. I inspect the brownish, cottony lump inside the tube, now dried with age. I twist the tube from side to side to view the node from all angles. As with all the other nodes in this room, it appears indistinct, and unremarkable. I wonder, though, what it is. Who extracted it from me? When? Why? I stare long and hard at the lump of flesh, a hundred questions floating through my mind, each one unanswered, each unanswered question creating a hundred more. I feel a heaviness in the pit of my stomach as I gaze at the fleshy node.

The cooler in the back of the room hums and drips.

I carefully place the node back in its place on the shelf. I look at its dried misshapen form, its filthy glass container. I stand in thought only a moment longer before I finally turn and walk without urgency from the storage room. As I emerge into the warmth of my workroom, I see another Client standing beside the desk. As my thoughts slowly return to the business at hand, I firmly close the steel door behind myself, locking the thousands of tubes away in a heavy, black silence.

---

I have continued my job as Collector for many weeks now, always going to the same building and performing the same job. Some days pass without a single Client visiting my office; on other days, I see as many as three or four. Today, I saw one.

On my way home, I notice a shop I have never seen before.

A low, stone wall with a vertically crenelated surface defines a narrow plot of dirt in front of one old building. The dried soil sprouts desiccated twigs and withered flowers, remnants of a more colorful past. Towering above this like some ancient glass monument stands the yellowed display of a quiet storefront. Chipped and discolored letters are stenciled onto the slick surface of the window, presumably announcing the store's name and purpose. Through the glass, little more is visible than blurry silhouettes. Nothing stirs along the cobblestone street that stretches out in either direction from the store.

As I open the front door, it strikes a small bell hanging from the frame. The ringing is absorbed into the dust and clutter inside, sounding dull and lifeless. The Shopkeeper looks up only long enough to indicate the store's wares with a simple sweep of the hand. These items crowd the shelves, vying for what little space is available, vying for the customer's attention among anonymity. I walk into the narrow interior and glance around at some of the objects on display.

A small statuette of a woman dancing, the hem of her dress frozen in midair as it flairs out from a twirl.

A bleached animal skull, painted in colorful designs now faded underneath a thick layer of dust and grime.

A silver mirror on a brass stand, both parts so tarnished that they no longer reflect even a glimmer of the shop's light.

A rattle, a child's toy, looking forlorn and lonesome despite being surrounded by clutter.

And the book — it is this item which finally stops my wandering eyes, halting my progress through the store. A simple book with a frayed fabric binding, it rests thick and full upon the shelf. I sweep the accumulated dust from its cover to reveal a greenish hue. As I lift it from its resting place, I am startled by how light it seems in comparison to its size.

There is no writing anywhere along the cover or spine to identify the text in any way. As I open the front flap, it cracks slightly with a dry age mirroring the antiquated feel of the store and its keeper. The pages are filled with triangular pieces of paper, perhaps once white but having since browned over the course of time. These pieces are arranged to demarcate the corners of rectangles and squares, and hold dry, cracked photographs in place. The sepia patterns are scratched and speckled, making it difficult to make out their contents.

But as I flip through the pages, I can discern a man in overalls standing in a field with a farm tool in hand. On another page is the same man with a young boy held close in one arm, the older smiling broadly at the camera while the younger looks distractedly off to one side. Another page holds an image of a woman's face held close to the lens. She stares off eternally towards the upper right corner of the photograph as if gazing fondly upon a flower perched high up in a window. Or perhaps she is looking upon a small, colorfully breasted bird resting upon the upper branches of a tree. Her face, for some reason, is hauntingly familiar.

I close the book shut with a dull thump and carry it to the back of the store, placing it on the high countertop. The Shopkeeper looks at it briefly before gazing at a spot somewhere behind my eyes. We stand like this for several minutes, before the silence is broken by voice.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

I nod my head.

“You can only ever take one item from this place.”

This is a statement, and not a question, so I am unsure how to respond.

“You realize that these aren't your photographs.”

This time it seems like a question, but it is phrased like a statement. I decide to accept it as the former and nod my head in understanding. I stare at the book once more before speaking.

“They'll become mine."