Taken Photos
“Smile!”
The couple in front of me flash their teeth disarmingly as I snap the picture. They were only too happy to have me take a photo of them here – tourists are easy to spot and they never mind, no matter the season. With my large camera, over-the-shoulder carrying bag and broad glasses, I hardly look like the kind to rob or steal from an unsuspecting couple or young lady traveling on her own – and I don't.
All I want is a picture, and I'll be glad to take one with any other camera that my subjects ask me to, so long as I can always take one of my own. I promise I'll send it by email, Facebook or other online method so they can see how I work, see the kind of magic I can produce. They assume, just from my look, that I must be a professional photographer – semi-professional, at any rate – someone looking to break into the industry with a new and bold way of shooting the common man, the frustrated tourist or the happy couple.
They're wrong, of course, but that doesn't really matter.
I hand the young man back his camera and he turns to his girlfriend, smiling. They look so good, he says, grabbing her ass when he thinks no one is looking, and they both giggle. Then, both stifle a large yawn, hands hiding the gaping holes of their mouths. It's a tiring business, traveling – no doubt they were up late, sightseeing or engaged in some other nocturnal activity – and its catching up to them both.
They thank me and walk off, smiles on their faces but eyes just a little dead around the edges. Foreign countries come with stress, with headaches and while the trip overall might be worthwhile, it can take a serious toll on a body and a mind.
On it goes, from couple to single and back again – a few groups here and there and even a woman with nine children and no husband in tow. I feel a brief flash of sorrow for her, but a stirring of pride for the fact that she's chosen to go it alone, to give the children some experience of culture, of history.
I capture them all, immortalize them in digital media, hold their frozen moments close as the sun rises and sinks, trailing across the burning azure sky. Even in a long shirt and pants I don't sweat, so engrossed am I in the work that I do. I'm not here everyday but most, waiting just as they step off the train, camera in hand and smile on my face. I'm easy to see, easy to overlook and never threatening. Almost no one says no to my offer but if they do I step politely back and let them pass. I'm not in the business of aggression, just in still life.
The day ends, finally, though I haven't noticed its passing. I long to get home, to review what I've done but I'm driven on by the new faces, the layered lines of those I see streaming off of the express, on their way to dinner or a show, heading for an evening rendezvous or running from one. All are subjects, all are tempting, all are beautiful.
Traffic ebbs and I pause, my camera finally at my hip rather than in my hand and I sling my bag high on my shoulder, angling out of the square. A few moments only takes me home – though the word is one I use of convenience. The flat is not large, only enough to hold the things I need. One bed, a fridge and a computer are all I require and all the landlord has ever seen me move in. He has suspicions, I think, that are wrong and certainly unfounded, but he keeps quiet because I pay the rent and start no trouble.
My hands are shaking as I sit down at the computer. They always do, at the end of a day. A quick press and the screen comes to life, a quick click and the camera is connected. Over a thousand photos – people of every race and nation, stature and dimension, all for me to keep.
They don't notice what I've taken, the small part of their soul my every clicking frame steals as they smile. They laugh as I hand them back their disposable memories, smile as the scan the city, and never know that they've been accosted, lost a part of themselves they never thought could be removed.
It isn't much; any more and I'd be found out, the agents of a Higher Power would come looking, seeking the thing that stole men's souls, but these are enough to satisfy me. They barely notice the fatigue, the drowsiness the feel as they walk away, as what is intrinsically them tries to adapt, adjust to what has been lost. It does, of course, and they miss nothing, know nothing of the part of them they never speak to, never acknowledge.
I roll up my sleeve. New technology and Old Gods have a found a balance, something that few would understand much less appreciate. A snap and the cable comes free of the camera and goes into my arm, bits of digital souls filling my pores, spilling over into my thudding crimson veins. I cry out at the sensation; the fear, the lust, the pain, the truth of it all as what I've taken becomes a part of me, as what I've stolen becomes indistinguishably mine.
You don't need to fear me should you see me – I'm no monster. Killing is not my aim, pain is not my province. My camera is my only tool and I'm happy to use it, happy to accommodate any request you might have.
Yes sir, I'd be happy to take your picture. It's a small thing, a moment, a pin prick. There.
It's taken.
- D
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