The Collectors - IV

Through the door of The Trout’s Tail, there stood a bar. A greasy-looking man with a pie of a face stood and wiped at a glass. The bar was made of thick oak, alike the beams hovering above. The walls were covered in nonsensical paintings; women passed eggs to each other in a circle, men rode upturned bicycles, children danced through nettle bushes.

     There was nobody at the bar that evening, though through the door on the left, a cacophony wafted in.

     Tables and chairs were set out evenly across a red-carpeted room. A fire sat at the far end, warming up two plump-looking armchairs in front of it. The tables were filled with families. Snorting, laughing, chattering. But if you looked close enough, you would see that these tables were absent of children.

     Moving along through the restaurant, there were signs all pointing to a door at the bottom of the room, near the fire. All of these signs read ‘PLAY AREA, THIS WAY!’

     Through that door, there stood a child’s dream.

     A plastic-covered, cotton-padded palace. Reds, blues greens and yellows hit the eyes with a regal gleam. It towered above every child that ran through it, dancing on every level in each of their imaginary games.

     Through the entrance, you could choose which way you wished to venture. The right took you to the stairs to the next level. If you went straight ahead you would find yourself in a ball pit. If you turned left…

     Tim Peters stepped from behind a black curtain at the end of the left passage. A strange, gooey substance covered his arms up to his elbows. His nose was snotty, and his eyes still held the hint of tears.

     He walked away from the curtain, out of the entrance, and back into the restaurant.

     He passed the tables of adults, who slowly stopped their babbling to get a glimpse of him, and stood before the table where his parents sat.

     Quietly and calmly, he said “Annie’s gone.”