Before Dying

For some reason, many believe that my colleagues in the trade have hard hearts. They say they can’t empathize with someone else’s grief, and that they’re stingy with emotions. A professional deformation of the personality—like in surgeons or executioners. Soul-less creatures, cold as fish. That’s a mistake. Beneath a stern shell covered in scars lies a tender, pliable core—easy to hurt with an careless word, a sideways glance, an ill-timed coughing, bad manners, a foul breath, or just a sour, grimy “swear” hanging ominously on the edge of those kind people’s clear, bright eyes. They are in no way recluses, as people like to think, and they easily open up—if you touch the right strings inside. And rest assured: your grief, your pain, your tears will surely draw from them an emotionally sincere, childlike response. And it’s all because they love life and know its value. My name is the Collector. I’m a headhunter—and this is my story.