The Collector

She always sat in the back corner of the room. People only noticed her because she was too pretty to be plain, but not pretty enough to care about. They might wonder in passing why she never tried harder, why she never spoke up, but it was easy to forget their curiosity of her in light of more interesting topics, like the latest contestants of “American Idol” or the paths of the socioeconomic class, or anything else that came to mind. Occasionally they might catch the glimmer of her eyes, but would be too concerned with other matters to wonder if they shone with wonder or with tears.

The only thing remotely unique about her was that she collected stuffed animals.

She would go home at night, to her camels and monkeys and bears and cats and dogs and penguins, all lined up on her bed. “When will they see...?” she would sigh and then settle down between them, whispering secrets and desires and stories and dreams and fantasies and truths and lies and everything she longs to say. They stare at her with their black, shiny eyes and say nothing. She knows they are the only ones to hear, to understand.

And when someone finally noticed that she hadn’t been in class for the past few days, they wrote it off. When another noticed her absence of a week, someone was sent to bring her the extra homework and see if she was feeling all right.

They found her drowned in her own words.