Card Collection
Card Collection stories
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anon
anonAnonymously Published Stories
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I stared fondly at my collection. It wasn’t large or all that expensive. But it was mine. A colorful assortment of children playing cards, a game from my youth. Many of them plucked from profitable dealers on auction sites.
By betteroffdeader https://www.reddit.com/r/...

Card Collection

by betteroffdeader

I stared fondly at my collection. It wasn’t large or all that expensive. But it was mine. A colorful assortment of children playing cards, a game from my youth.

Many of them plucked from profitable dealers on auction sites.

It wasn’t like I had a strong passion for collecting cards- and really thank the heavens I don’t. It’s an expensive hobby. But when I was small, I was picked on ruthlessly in school.

And had my prized cards stolen and bullied away from me on more than one occasion. The teachers did nothing as they understood nothing of the situation. It was just toys.

Cheap slips of paper you could get by the seven for a dollar in stores. Why make a fuss? It was my fault for bringing them to school in the first place.

Useless.

I didn’t hesitate years later to spend my first real paycheck on hunting down my lost cards. Targeting all my favorite ones that had been in my possession.

Then, I bought special variations of those cards. Every variation. I have eight different versions of the same dragon card.

A card that sparkled, a card that glowed, a card where the dragon was posed ever so slightly different or wore a different color scheme all together.

Cards from japan and printed in different languages.

All mine. It surely would have been the envy of my peers years ago.

Then I bought the cards that always been out of my grasp. The ultra rare and ultra powerful cards that only the rich children had. Only they could afford more than a pack a week.

No longer did my inner child feel a sense of envy. It was a petty satisfaction, but satisfaction none the less.

My urges stopped there. I felt no need to collect more cards. I was no completionist. It was only an itch I needed to scratch. I closed the binder with a faint smile.

I was more adjusted than most. Some might of seek revenge. But we were only children then- and their names were not worth remembering. No, all I needed was a little closure.

And now I have it, in the form of crisp slips of paper perfectly sealed in sleeve protectors in my hard cover binder.

Content with my finished business, I set the binder aside and made the short walk toward the wooden stool sitting perfectly in center of my room.

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