Koumpouophilia - Short Story
He sits quietly, gazing lazily at his motherâs closet. An array of winter coats hang a few centimetres from his face, their colours dulled by age. He inhales the familiar musty scent of old, pre-worn clothes.
The shrill voice of his teenage sister interrupts the peaceful moment, the noise echoing from downstairs. She was having another hissy fit, no doubt over another piece of dirty laundry; whining and carrying on. Girls; theyâre all the same.
Closing his eyes, he focuses his sense of touch on the shiny, smooth surface under his fingertips. Here is where heâs found peace and serenity; a meditation.
His mother admired this quality in him. Such a calm demeanour for a child, never following her around, quite content by himself. She found him intriguing.
At her motherâs group, the other women were always divulging how their children had become difficult, bratty and uncontrollable when reaching his particular age. They were fascinated by her tranquil little boy and when chance came that they happened to glimpse him, they couldnât help but watch in awe of his placid behaviour.
Day to day, she would find him hidden away in the back of her closet, amongst her collection of cashmere cardigans; his version of a security blanket, a favourite hide and seek spot. Or otherwise marvelling dreamily at the clouds from under the washing line; the summer breeze ruffling hair into his eyes, still could not break his gaze.
He was  a sweet little boy. Very well behaved.
Well, most of the time.
Slowly he uncrosses his legs, as if entranced, and then makes his way quietly down the stairs. The sweet smell of cinnamon lingers in the air, wafting through the thin gap in the kitchen door, a clear sign his mother is busy baking.
With her preoccupied he inches, mimicking a burglar, sliding his back against the wall, until he arrives at the garage door. Reaching up, stood on his very tip toes, small fingers stretched wide he grasps the brass knob and pulls with all his bodyâs strength. The door creaks as it opens but luckily the sound of clashing metal pans in the kitchen masks the sound. He creeps his way gradually down the aphotic steps.
Often he chooses times such as these to go down to the underground garage. His family busy with trivial daily routines, leave him to his own devices uninterrupted.
Standing in front of the very bottom step he counts in his head, as taught in kindergarten, seconds in the length of hippopotamus. Certain his mother isnât looking for him, he opens a loose panel on the dingy step, ignoring the dirt that jams underneath his finger nails.
A racing in his heart awakened, his head pounds with the sound of his own thumping pulse. Shallow breathing causes him to become light headed and the world around him disappears. Before him is his exquisite trophy case. Beautiful objects; almost a hundred in number, colour, shape and size.
His mother had thought it strange that her sewing scissors had gone missing but clumsy and forgetful as she was, assumed sheâd misplaced them.
Perfect they were for cutting tiny threads with tiny hands. Especially the tiny threads that held his trophies in place.
His sister suspected something. He knew from the way she glared at him whenever she found him alone in her room, but he also knew she couldnât prove a thing.
With utmost precision and the most delicate manner he could muster, he places the purple gem with both finger tips, on top of his ever growing pile.
Smiling triumphantly, tears gleaming in his pale blue eyes, he stares lovingly at his precious mountain of treasure. His perfect secret; his only; his buttons.
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