Pickled

Image courtesy: Google

He was a regular customer at the local supermarket where he battled his conflicts about the purchases he made, so often did he shop there that the shop assistants were on a first name basis with him. Maybe it was gentle demeanor or maybe it was that he poked in nobody's business; the children in the neighborhood always looked forward to those days he went shopping as he always bought them chocolates and other little treats. The old ladies blessed him for his kindheartedness for he offered a helping hand around their homes. 

Each week he went and bought large ceramic jars, the ones that are used to make pickles for it was his hobby and people always wondered among themselves why such a nice man chose to remain unmarried. He shrugged off their inquisitiveness with a smile and went back home to his secret- the dozens of female brains that remained pickled in the jars that were arranged neatly on the shelves in his basement, one for each of the women he had dated.  

This post is written for Five sentence fiction for Conflict  at Lillie McFerrin Writes.

P.S. I'm not a psycho! It can be partly blamed on the numerous Dexter episodes that I have watched in the recent past.