G/T Adventures

The Collector

Marjorie gripped the brown leather pouch between both hands, able to feel the tiny being inside kicking and fighting against her. "Please, I'm sorry." The young woman of seventeen whispered to the package. "I truly am."  

Shivering, she pulled her winter coat tighter around herself and looked to make sure she wasn't being followed before stepping inside the warm, dimly cottage. "I-I'm back!" She called to the other room, turning her head only slightly to look at the other figures lining the bookshelf. 

Each doll was beautifully painted, draped in a handstitched gown that always matched the color of the eyes. The porcelain was perfectly sculpted, and the hair groomed to the point of absolutely no frizziness. 

While anyone else could look at this porcelain beauties and think nothing of it, Marjorie's stomach churned every time she laid eyes on them. For only she and The Man know the truth. She knows not his name, and nor where he came from or how he acquired his special abilities, but in her mind, she calls him The Collector. A sick man who takes joy in diminishing a human female's size and tormenting the poor girl before coating her with clay and placing her in the kiln.

"Ah, Marjorie you've returned!" The tall, thin man stepped out into the room, dressed in his usual black trousers, suspenders, and white, buttoned and collared shirt. "Tell me, did you gather my new little toy?" His voice was deep and hoarse. Very distinguishable. It is the kind of voice that you would hear in your nightmares. And his figure made him appear he should work in a graveyard. 

Thin, long legs and lanky arms. Shaggy platinum blonde hair, ghostly pale skin, and piercing pale green eyes that could remind you of a rotting corpse. His cheeks were sunken in, and his face too was long and thin. In fact, he looked more like he belonged buried in a graveyard rather than working in one. 

"Yes, sir," Marjorie whispered and held the small leather pouch carefully in her hands. "Should I get your tools?" She hated this. If she could she would free the poor girl in her hands and get away. But she couldn't. The Man would ensure that.  

"No...why don't you prepare her this time, and I'll only take care of her new clothes. You know where the clay and kiln are. Why don't you take a turn?" An eerie smirk perched on his thin lips, and his iris's were darting back and forth, trying to read the young woman's face. 

Had she not been still alive, Marjorie could have sworn her heart stopped. She couldn't do that. She couldn't prepare a young girl for her death by a fire similar to Hell's. But if she were to refuse..."Yes, sir," She responded with a very discreet hesitance in her tone. "I'll take care of her."

The Collector only continued to smirk as he turned on his heels to exit the room. But then he stopped and strode over to the bookshelf where at least a dozen girls preserved corpses stand, coated in clay and paint. "You'll have a new little friend soon my lovely little dears. What do you think of that?"

There was silence. Only the pale, painted eyes of the once living girls staring back at The Man as he spoke to them. It sent chills down Marjorie's spine. A deep chuckle emitted from his throat before he finally left the room, leaving the young woman alone with the fighting figure in her hands.

Taking a seat at the workbench, the seventeen-year-old untied the strings and reached her fingers into the leather purse. Her skin brushed something warm, and shaky, and slowly she curled her digits around the shrunken female and lifted her into the dim light.

The tiny figure in her hand trembled in fear, its hair hiding its face and soft but audible whimpers would be heard. "L-let me go. I-I'll do whatever y-you want, please just l-let me go." The miniaturized female begged, her own tiny hands gripping the pointer finger of Marjorie's hand.

She always pitied the girls she was forced to bring in. This young girl,  maybe only just her own age, would be the sixteenth one. Marjorie was originally the first. But The Man said she was special, and that he would save her. But that's another story.

"I-I wish I could," Marjorie whispered to the tiny girl, taking a small box of light gray clay from the drawer of the workbench. 

"Please miss, please. Since my parents died I had to take care of my little brother, he's o-only three, please let me go back to him." The brown haired girl quivered in the giantess's palms, still gripping a large finger that held her still.

The young woman closed her eyes tightly and placed the box of clay back down. "I can't do this anymore." Quickly she rose from the chair and recklessly stuffed the tiny female into the pocket of her coat. "Stay still," Marjorie ordered and got on her hands and knees. She began to make it look like she was looking for something as The Collector came back into the room.

"Marjorie! Tell me you did not lose the precious little beauty!" His hoarse voice barked. He had only come to see how she was coming along with the process. 

"I...I did, I'm sorry sir. I'll find her, I will." Marjorie's heart was pounding against her chest. She was sure he'd know what she'd done.

The Collector's eyes scanned the room with an angry, but mischievous glint. "When we find her, I want to have a little fun with her. Perhaps she could be a guinea pig or an amusing little toy for me. When you find her, bring her straight to me." His voice ordered, and Marjorie didn't have to look at him to know he was staring at her.

Only nodding her head, the young lady waited until his footsteps receded and the bedroom door closed, leaving her alone with the tiny girl in her pocket. Something needed to be done about this sick, wicked man.