My Photographs (Original Short Story)

By Connor MacDonald

“I know you, but you don’t know me.”

Life had a funny way of revealing itself through people. Watching people pursue their self-described grand purposes, desires, and hatred. It all culminated in these little moments, quick and minuscule. Yet as they add up, they create the story of your life. I looked at my wall and realized that my photographs also told a story.

You see, I’m a photographer. Every day after work, I would go to public places and take my photos. Today was no different. I snapped a photo of a woman jogging through the park and looked at my camera. I didn’t like it, and I hovered my thumb over the delete button.

“Hey, fucking creep!” a middle-aged man shouted and began storming over towards me. I looked at him and snapped another photo.

“I don’t want to be filmed,” he stated. “And my wife certainly doesn’t want to be a part of your spank bank.”

“Oh,” I rubbed my neck. “No, it isn’t like that. I’m just taking photographs to post on the city social media account. I can delete the photo if you want. I just wanted to show people that people jog in the park.”

The man relaxed his shoulders. “Sorry, it just seems odd.”

I chuckled. “No, no, nothing odd here.”

He studied me and nodded. He jogged on, and I snapped a photo of him as he left. That day I had captured many memories and walked home. My favourite photo was of a young couple kissing near the park bench. I would need to add it to my wall.

My apartment was bathed in a red light. I kept it rather minimal, with only a chair in the living room and a TV I mounted to the wall. I began to develop my photographs, so I could not turn on the television. I hated the digitization of photographs. Modern photography had stripped away the meaning of capturing these moments. Now capturing memories was so mundane, without skill required.

I went to my wall and touched the photograph of a woman smoking a cigarette under a tree. She had a black bob cut, and her lips were large and pouty. She was looking away from me, but I could tell she was sad.

The photographs would take time to develop, so I left the apartment. I didn’t need to sleep, and the best time to take photographs was at night. A moonlight kiss, the lonely man walking, or kids causing trouble. The emotional heartbeat of humanity was alive more at night than the day.

I cloaked myself in dark attire. People revealed their most pure wants and desires when they assumed they were alone. I knew that the flash of my camera would draw attention, but I could slink away into the night easily. I had never been caught yet.

The best was when people left their blinds open on the first floor of their homes. I could see them, but with their lights on, they couldn’t see me. I came across a yellow brick house, and the blinds were open for all to see. No car was in the driveway, but I could see a pretty young woman cooking food in the kitchen.

I draped myself in the darkness of night and disappeared from view. I turned my flash off, as it would ruin the photograph. I snapped a series of photographs as she went about preparing her meal. Her face was stone, and she did not seem present in this moment.

A police cruiser drove down the road, and I could see that the officer was searching for something. His flashlight swept across the houses. I pressed myself tightly against the wall and closed my eyes. He clicked it off.

I continued on my task. The cruiser slowly crept away before vanishing into the night. There was chattering online about a creepy man prowling the streets at night. I wasn’t hurting anyone. The police had better use of their time than chasing a shade. I snapped a photo of the car as it drove off. This belonged on my wall as a nice moment to preserve.

When I was identified and chosen for this task, I was a young child. I wished I had preserved that memory as I had so many others. As a cataloger, I had taken so many memories. It had been a long time, but I still enjoyed thinking about my beginnings.

My thoughts were interrupted as I came across the park where I was earlier that day. A group of children were smoking on the playground, and I studied them. The leader of their adolescent gang was thumping his chest.

“I fucked that girl, bro.”

I judged him to be maybe thirteen. My attention quickly shifted off of the loud child and towards his friend. A quiet boy, heavyset with freckles, about the same age. He was on the swing, not engaging in the loud bragging his friends seemed to enjoy.

My flash startled them, and they all looked in my direction. I retreated further back towards the creek, and I could hear the loud boy yell.

“Come out, we’re gonna beat your ass.”

I doubted that.

Another flash, as they investigated the area I was at. When you’ve been unseen for so long, you start to wonder if you’re even physical. I slid further away as the boys became more anxious.

“Let’s get out of here,” the heavier boy said. “I want to go home.”

“Nah fam, didn’t you hear? There is some creep prowling the town. We catch him, we’ll get a reward.”

I retreated as they searched the creek for answers. It was a good moment, worthy of collecting. They never had a chance to catch me because they were not used to seeing the unseeable.

Slinking away towards the apartment I possessed, I found nothing worthy of preserving. A couple was arguing loudly about infidelity outside of a bar, but I had thousands of memories that showed that. It was quieter moments that interested us.

Two triangles had been etched into the frame of the door. He had been inside my apartment. I entered, and in the darkness, I saw no movement.

“I’m back,” I told my photographs. They had finished developing, and I put them on the wall. He would be by to collect.

They gave no response, and I set them on the wall. Three photographs had been claimed; one of them was the woman smoking her cigarette. I felt a sense of loss, but I understood why he had taken it.

I examined the photograph of the female jogger I had taken and touched her while she was on the wall. Her face seemed in pain and confused. I turned the TV on, and my photographs and I watched television together.

“I see you, but you can’t see me.”