Nick
by northern

He's sitting on the floor, on the inside of the door, with his back to it.

He can't open the door to the balcony. He's locked away this week. His keepers decided not to let him out for a while.

Some days, like today, he stares at his hands and wonders how he got himself into this contract.

He's allowed to live his life mostly the way he used to. They decide which clothes he wears. They drive him when he goes places and hold off the people trying to get to him. There aren't that many anymore. When he was younger and his keepers were more interested in showing him he had a lot of problems with people trying to get too close. He was a different type, then. More marketable.

The main difference in these contract holders is that when they call him he must come. Always. And that they can lock him in.

They own others too. Children, men and women. They are always out surveying the Blocks, looking for better and more beautiful talent. It looks as if they are aiming for a complete collection.

He's out on loan in periods. The people requesting him have gone from middle aged businessmen and young rich girls to mostly older women now. The businessmen are still there for him, sometimes.

They always worked him hard, saying it was to hone his skills and make him more desirable. They said that they were absolutely convinced that he was going to be something huge in their world.

He's mostly for private showings now. They protect him, because he's valuable. He doesn't meet as many people as before. They say he has become specialized, now.

A - "Is that one for sale?"

B - "I don't know, let me check the tag... No, it says Private Property."

A - "Well, I guess he's not that pretty."

B - "What about that one, over there? She's cute. If you like the type, of course."

A - "I was in the mood for something like this, actually. It's a pity he's not for sale."

C - "Put him back on the shelf, if you're not looking to buy."

B - "No, sorry, we're not buying today. Let's go, honey. We'll get something better than this for you tomorrow."

He's getting older. He knows it, especially from the way they look at him. He's not allowed access to the mirrors anymore. They make sure he stays inside on sunny days.

It's like they're squeezing him to get the last of the juice.

He's never seen what becomes of the husks.

In his dreams, he's sold and sold again to faceless keepers. They dress him and undress him. They put him on stages, on display, the way they never do anymore when he's awake.

The younger talent bounce past him, skidding around him as if he is a corner to them, a turning point. They take care not to touch him.

He will be gone soon, and they know it.