The camera hadn’t lied…………………
Peter had been so thrilled to receive the camera for his birthday. He had asked and asked his parents for one for such a long time, but their regular answer to his requests was “ when you’re a bit older, Peter” and with that he had to be satisfied.
Now he was old enough at 12 to have the top of the range camera he and his parents had gone out together to buy. For years Peter had been seeing things in a different way to most people. When he was much smaller, he had a secret playmate. When he tried to tell his parents about his friend, that no-one else could see, they laughed and said it was normal; that every child had a secret friend, and that he would grow out of it. His parents chose to think it was because he was an only child and needed company, so they enrolled him in a pre-school group. To Peter, that was betrayal – his parents didn’t believe him, and once he started the pre-school, nor did anyone else. As Peter grew a little older, and started the years of his education, he began to realize that no-one wanted to hear about the ghostly figure of his friend. They didn’t want to hear that his friend had told him stories of other worlds, and that Peter had seen pictures in his mind of how those other wordly creatures looked.
Peter became well aware that it was thought he was having hallucinations when he spoke to his friend when he was alone in his room. His parents would knock loudly on the door and ask him if he was OK.
As time went by, Peter learned to keep his feelings under control . He no longer explained to people that he could see someone unlike anybody else, or that he could speak in another language.
It became an obsession of his to prove the existence of the creature that had befriended him, and so through his school terms, Peter started to study the art of photography and the mechanics of developing black and white pictures.
His parents were relieved to see him taking up a “normal “ hobby and encouraged him by buying him an inexpensive camera on which to practice his growing skills. As Peter became more proficient in the use of his camera and the teachers at his school got accustomed to seeing him working in the Art class and photography lab during break times, they began to encourage his skills. The young male teacher of Art and Photography offered to give him some extra tuition after school, and the teacher of English suggested that Peter write stories to go with his photographs.
That was when Peter’s parents decided that he was ready for the expensive camera that he had set his heart on; the one that would , he hoped , take black and white images of his friend. No one realized that this was Peter’s ultimate aim; that he wanted to prove to his parents and all the other adults that he was not mad, and that it was not his imagination working overtime; that his friend really did exist, and wanted to show Peter the other lifeforces in the universe.
After school one gloomy afternoon, Peter walked in the other direction from his home. Some of his school friends called and asked him where he was going, but he hurried along, head down, and didn’t answer. Afterwards, one of his mates said they thought they had seen him carrying his camera and a tripod, but couldn’t be sure in the gathering dusk.
When he reached the quiet solitary spot he had chosen for this very day Peter set up his tripod and loaded his camera with black and white film. He had mentally planned this action, for a long time and now it was time.
He sat quietly in the gloom and welcomed his friend into his mind. He asked his friend if was alright to show the photos when they had been taken. The otherworldly figure gave agreement and stepped out into the dusk ; Peter felt the presence leave his mind and release from his brain. Horrified, he covered his face with his hands – that first glance had shown him that the figure that he thought was a similar shape to his own, was not! The faceless being that hovered in front of him was nothing like his imagined friend.
Peter pressed the remote button on his camera just as he felt himself being taken …………………
She may have killed her husband but no one could call it murder.
It was the neighbours that found his body. The blood had crusted around the bullet wound in the centre of his forehead when Mrs. Jenkins entered the apartment the couple owned, on her way to collect this months rent. When there had been no answer to her knocking, the angry old woman and dug through the pockets of her apron for her copy of the key.
That same key fell to the floor when she saw the slippered feet of her tenant. Anger was replaced with shock as she inched further into the apartment, hugging the wall. It was a grotesque curiosity that powered her legs. A part of her wanted nothing more than to turn around but she couldn’t. She needed to see it for herself.
The tiled floor was slick with blood as she made her way into the kitchen. How can one person have that much blood in them?, she thought, completely transfixed by the corpse in front of her.
What she didn’t expect to see however, was his wife sat a few feet away, knees pulled into her chest like a child, tears falling freely, a gun at her feet.
Mrs Jenkins knew she hadn’t been seen when she backed from the apartment. She doubted her neighbour was seeing anything other than the body of her husband in front of her. There was not even the slightest feeling of guilt in Mrs Jenkins’ mind when she dialed the three numbers that would bring the police to the apartment block. If she had taken the time to speak to the young couple she may have realized that there was more to the situation than meets the eye.
The young woman hadn’t moved when the police arrived. When they dragged her to her feet, placed the cold metal of the handcuffs around her wrists, she never once looked away from the body of her husband.
It was as if a part of her had died too, leaving the empty shell that sat before the police.
“Mrs Young, your fingerprints are all over the gun and – “
“I know. i was the one who...who pulled the trigger.”
The police were shocked – this had to be a new record for a confession. She hadn’t even tried to deny it. They quickly set about filling out the necessary paperwork, filtering from the room until only one policewoman remained. She was in her fifties, hardened by the things she had seen but this was different. This woman didn’t have the eyes of a killer.
“Why’d you do it?”
The young woman froze. How could she explain it? How could she justify what she just did?
“My husband was a very proud man. If anyone perceived even the slightest weakness it would ki-,” she couldn’t form the words, not when his lifeless body was laid on his kitchen floor.
She took a deep, shaky breath.
“The doctor’s said the tumour was inoperable, there was nothing they could do. He would just get weaker, until, one day, he would be gone.”
The tears were falling freely now on both the women’s faces.
“He couldn’t bear the thought of having to be taken care of, of being that vulnerable. ‘I don’t want it to end like this’ that’s what he told me. He asked me to do it, asked me to pull the trigger.”
“I loved him, with my whole heart.We were meant to grow old together; he was meant to be my forever-“
Her words were drowned by her sobs, sobs that shook her whole body. They were ripped from her chest, her pain obvious to anyone who looked.
No, the police woman thought with pity, she may have killed her husband but no one could call it murder.
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