The Collector

(Sensitive themes include suicide and domestic abuse)

At the intersection, I could go right and head home- but turning left would take me past Callum’s. This is the last clear thought I remember.

I fucking hate Callum.

As if on autopilot I must have flicked the indicator to left and some 10 minutes later the camera shows me pulling up outside his apartment block. It sounds implausible but I could not tell you a single thing about the journey, yet something about me must have been suspicious or memorable. Apparently, there is a witness. It couldn’t have been the outfit; there’s nothing remarkable about a white blouse and black smart trousers. I’m an average-looking 30 something year old woman, so generic I could be one of those AI generated personas, so in such a busy neighborhood someone looking like me would fade into the sidewalk. A lot of windows with nosey neighbors, I guess.

The footage shows that I sat there for 40 minutes. Pulled up with the engine still on. No sign of any movement. It was a weird watch, I’ll give you that, my gormless face captured on that security cam, existing with pure passivity. That changes quickly when Callum saunters down the street, smugness oozing out of him. My heart rate must have doubled when I saw him. Crisp blue pinstripe suit, slicked chestnut hair, skin glistening in the sun, his father’s signet ring, Rolex on show. You can see me sit up straight like the Undertaker when that happens- no denying that I saw him. He hadn’t seen me yet though.

I guess I owe you a bit of context about why I hate this man so much, although maybe you are starting to come around to my opinion already. Callum was my friend’s fiancé. Her name was Roxanne; we all called her Roxie. She was like a sister to me, we navigated the adult world together from teenage heartbreak, awful first jobs, and the drama that unfolds year on year. I’ve known her since we were 11, she was bold and vivacious- clashing prints, bold jewelry, a wardrobe full vibrant color. If I am generic, she was abstract. The last time I saw her it was as if no color existed in her anymore though. Last week I read somewhere about how some men are like exotic bird collectors; they only want a woman who is free so they can put them in a cage. I need to remember where I read it. I was sat in the canteen at work, head down and headphones on, and when I read that it hit me in the gut and tears started streaming down my face. Concerned co-workers checked in and I made my excuses. I’m temping in an office now so luckily there was no awkward follow up. This was exactly it- my beautiful, free-spirited friend became a piece of property for decoration. Admirers fawned over her, but it was misplaced, not for Roxie but for the man who could tame and display her, the collector. Over the course of a whirlwind year, her stature seemed to shrink, her vibrancy became a muted echo of what it was, and her spirit was crushed. I know in my bones that he was emotionally and mentally abusive; she never shared but I knew she knew I knew. Telepathy.

I really try and live with no regrets but not getting there in time haunts every waking moment of my life. I see his smug smirk and her eyes of sorrow in my dreams and wake up fists clenched. Maybe now you understand by reaction in that car. You might be thinking- what kind of friend lets this happen? Please let me explain. I was estranged from my parents for many years- near on a decade. In the last two years we’ve been talking again and in the last year both have deteriorated. I temporarily moved out of state nine months ago., When I came back after it all happened, I couldn’t bring myself to leave. I knew Roxie was calling for me to stay. The combination of my absence and Callum’s calculated plan of abuse and isolation proved to be fatal. I guessed that you’ve figured out by now that Roxie is no longer alive. On the eve of her 30th birthday she was found dead in her bath- suicide. No, in answer to your question, it wasn’t a murder cover up by Callum. He was in Las Vegas for his brother’s stag-do. He is responsible though, his torrent of abuse filled that bathtub and his neglect pushed her under.

The thing that really makes me laugh about this whole predicament is that if my deepest darkest thoughts could be mapped and analyzed this would be nothing in comparison. This was tame. Hours, perhaps days, of my life have been lost to fantasizing about how justice could be served, how I could plan the perfect murder, how I could get him convicted for something else then get him fucked up in jail, how I could destroy his life with meticulous and calculated precision. At my darkest point I plotted kidnap and some form of retribution via drowning. Poetic justice if you will.

On that note, back to that street last week, me in the car alert and angry, and Callum blissfully oblivious of what will unfold. By the time he gets to the entrance lobby of the apartment complex he’s on the phone to someone, I assume his work- a swanky corporate law firm, as its one of the rare times the smirk fades and the mask slips. On videocalls with Roxie they would ring, and he’d take it with a self-important sense of urgency, talking loud enough to ensure we hear the spiel of legal jargon. Keeping our conversation in earshot. But on the street, he’s distracted this time, looking at his watch. Then in the blink of an eye he’s on the floor, bleeding out. I’m seen slowly getting out the car and standing over him, savouring the moment the realisation creeps over on his face. He knows I’m his only hope. He knows there is no hope. I kneel and witness his last moments on earth, then get back into my car. An anonymous tip to the emergency services and I drive home in a state of peace.

Now at home after some interrogation, I’m told that there are likely to be no charges against me, he died on impact they say. Not quite true. A ‘freak accident’. Turns out it was an eccentric millionaire who had a pigeon roost on the roof attempting to coax some new additions of his bird collection to fly for him. This previously wild bird broke free and the dropped the GPS tracker, and fate drove it deep into Callum’s skull. I can hear Roxie’s laugh permeate my room and swear I can smell her signature scent- vanilla and amber, I can’t stop myself laughing on and off. Our teenage years were filled with an obsession with the humour in morbidity, we visited cemeteries, searched for park benches to find funny dedications, and researched weird and unexplained deaths. A man whose life was about control was killed in a ‘freak accident’. A man who caged Roxie like an exotic bird, was killed by a bird flying free. Trever Noah- that’s what I was reading. In a final act of justice and disrespect, I will be updating the very webpage lists of deaths we used to read, adding his name to the collection. Me and Roxie are free; he holds no power now.

I fucking hate Callum. I fucking miss Roxie.