The Silence Collector

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Written for Bradley Ramsey's "Narrative Feast 4". Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

Is there any sound sweeter than silence? I think not. That’s why I collect them. Every kind I come across.
Of course I have many common silences - the pensive hush of libraries, earnest stillness of worship, the blissful lull of sated lovers… but the, dare I say, juicier silences are far more interesting.
The heavy, hungry silence of a room waiting for a man to plead guilty to a crime they all know he didn’t commit.
The far too loud silence when the whimpers and thrashing against the pillow finally ends.
The aching silence between a parent calling for their child and realising there is no response.
I pinch them from the air. Wrap them around a finger to hold them steady while I choose a container.
That’s my other collection - bottles, jars, tins, canisters. You’d be amazed what people throw out. Each carries a story, and I make sure the container and the silence go well together. It’s an art form, and I am - if I do say so - a master at it.
After centuries of work my collection is remarkable. Gazing upon it fills me with pride. Lifting each container to my ear, listening to the silence it holds, is a source of endless delight.
And yet…
A certainty, groundless yet boundless, gnaws at my mind.
Something is missing.
I don’t know what makes me think this. Perhaps it’s simply the call of the consummate collector pulling me ever onwards. The hope to find a rarer, sweeter, juicier silence.
And yet…
So I search. Letting this nagging absence to guide my footsteps. Gathering silences on the way.
The agonised silence which stretches out after “Do you love me?”.
The tired silence when a last rattling breath dies away to leave an empty room.
The tight silence as someone steels themselves to speak, not knowing if these words will be their last.
All delightful. Delicious. Worthy additions to my collection.
Yet it still feels incomplete.
And of course it is, every silence is unique and so no collection, no matter how vast, can ever truly capture their breadth, but…
Something is missing.
When I step into this library a jolt runs up my spine, excitement crackling in its wake. Here. This is what I’ve been searching for. Not in the library itself, this silence is utterly mundane, but I can just catch some inverse whisper lurking underneath.
The door to the basement is cemented over. Is that why this silence feels so deep, so rich? No, I have bottled the hush of many abandoned catacombs. There must be something else.
I slip through the wall, as ungraspable as the silences lining my pockets, and descend the stairs.
Yes, yes! This is what I’ve quested for. I can practically taste it.
The safe is made of Thunderbolt Iron and embossed with all manner of symbols, their power sufficient to make my fingers smart as I peel it open… to reveal a lead box.
Tsk.
It takes both my fingernails and teeth to prise this second shell off, whereupon I find a casket of many woods.
The silence thrums against my fingers. Calls to me, as it has for so long. I rip its prison open without hesitation.
Only then, as I finally breathe deep and taste it, do I realise what manner of silence this is.
The silence after the end.
The hush of nothing left.
The lull that will never be broken.
It reaches for me with a purity of hunger which dwarfs the covetous need to collect which led me here, to lurking doom. As I stumble back, its swipes just missing me, it instead finds the pockets of my flowing coat.
In an instant it slurps up every silences it touches, their unique and beautiful bouquets consumed. Subsumed. As it will do to everything. For as long as memories and echoes remain, the end is unfinished.
The casket lies in splinters. The safe door hangs off its hinges. All that remains is the lead box, torn and bent. And pliable. It can be reshaped. But can I do so fast enough? And will it hold?
I must try. There is no fleeing from what I have unleashed.
So I snatch up one bottle and slip out of my coat, leaving my beloved collection as a feast for its undiscerning gaping maw while I dive for the remains of its prison.
I had thought myself above the warnings they presented. A mistake that may prove to be fatal even for one like me.
Pinching tugging twisting I force the lead back into shape. I place the bottle, the last remnant of my centuries of loving labour, inside and hold it towards the feasting hush.
A new agonising silence, of waiting for it to finish its meal and resuming hunting. I catch a snippet around my finger and tuck it inside the box. A second lure.
Please let it be enough.
The tendrils twitch and reach and find my offering. It leans in… a little more…
Now!
While this silence is far too vast for me to hold, I manage to scoop and shove and force it inside. It doesn’t fight, unable to grasp what is happening. But the moment it has finished slurping up this snack…
I frantically poke the leaks back in with one hand while pinching the metal shut with the other. No, this won’t do! It’s too thin, too fragile!
My eyes sweep across the discarded containers. Too small, too weak, too…
The box shudders in my hands. The silence reaches once more.
There is only one option left.
I rip open my chest.

I do not collect silences anymore. I have no time for such joys, and I must remain in noise, to keep the hungry lull barely contained by my flesh satisfied. At least enough to slumber fitfully.
But I still collect containers. Searching. Endlessly searching.
Hoping I might find one which matches this silence I bear.

Prompt was “There is a person who collects silences of all kinds. Like the moments right before someone confesses their love, the silence after laughter, or even the silence following the death of a loved one. One day they find a silence they weren’t supposed to find…”