I still have a copy of the photo. I keep it tucked in with the giant family Bible I inherited years ago, the one with names so old the ink has faded. Sometimes, when I can't sleep I pull it out and trace the names back, repeating them softly under my breath, as though it is a mantra, an apology to all those years of life that will end with me. Invariably, the photo will slide out and reveal itself in its garish glory. In my mind's eye I see it sketched out in sepia tones, faded just as all the other names and images have faded over the years. Every time I see it again I'm startled by the bright colors. If not sepia, it should at least have been drawn in blood.
Three teenagers, standing in front of an anonymous red building. Two are standing, arms wrapped around each other's waists. A couple. A young man, still slightly awkward, with an air of the unfinished about him. A woman, unconsciously beautiful. Looking back, they look so right for each other. Dark hair, dark eyes, flashing, confident smiles. Leaders of men and women alike.
I was, no I am and will always be, the third teenager in the picture. Sitting at their feet, the pale interloper in their moment. Did I know then, just how far it would go? The happy colors, the pink of her blouse, the blue swim trunks he wore clash with the flatness of my memory.
When I think of the picture, I see myself with my head upturned, basking in reflected glory. A human-shaped puppy worshiping my masters.
I'm always surprised when the actual picture shows me looking straight at the camera, smiling. There is a sense of camaraderie and joy that in retrospect disturbs me more than the bright colors.
It is a small town. It is a town that never let her people leave. Sometimes individuals would drift in and then out, but always they would return. Returning confused, scarred, and ready to sink back within the sleepy constriction of small town life, testaments to all those who remained that they had made the right choice. Twenty years later, I'm still the scandal of the town. Small children know who I am, and people still tsk over the events that unfolded so long ago. In spite of this, I cannot leave. He chained me here so long ago that even as the chains rust, I cannot go beyond my perimeter.
I did leave once. University, so blurry now, I can only remember flashes of events. A woman's calf under her wool skirt, the ache of a headache from my first real hangover. One party is four years. There may be photos somewhere. Photos might prove that I was independent, that I did things without the pair, but it would prove nothing. Without them, college was a recess, not a life.
We're always told to be leaders, to train ourselves, to grab hold of a vision and then pursue it. The closest I ever came was to grab hold of leaders and follow them. Is it so wrong to be a born-follower? Someone must carry out the orders. Even in writing these words, I realize that I don’t have the self-awareness to question my devotion. She asked me if I would follow her, if I would do what she wanted on her terms. So even now, I ask because she wanted me to ask. I already know the answer. She told me decades ago.
The hole is still in the wall. It reminds me that I cannot leave this place.
There was a dog once. Greyfriars Bobby was his name. Fourteen years he slept on his master's grave. He was the companion with only the memories commanding his loyalty. Greyfriars Bobby has a statue, and a collar. Is it right to envy a dog long-dead? At least I can be buried in the same cemetery. Even in death Bobby was separated from his master.
After university I returned. I shouldn’t have, but my mother was sick, and even a small town accountant can live reasonably well. I knew math and had a study lined with books. Who is to say that I would have lived any better in a city?
They had gotten married. No children, just a beautiful couple. The local sheriff and his bride. That’s how they still refer to them. She was not just a bride. She was the mechanic, the builder. No one wants to remember her with grease caked under her fingernails and coveralls. It doesn’t fit the story. Photos would ruin the story. I wish I could hang them all over the town. Larger than life. They were real, not caricatures in a morality play.
I never married. I watched them, I watched the town. My eyes started to go, my knees ached, but the money never did anything but sit. Instead of rotting like fruit should, it multiplied, pulsated and hung, malignant over the entire town. Women came by, bread in hand, offering me not just their cooking, but their hand. I should be “safely married” for my own good. My mother was dead, I had no one to take care of me, who could blame them? Now they give thanks for their good fortune and wait like vultures to strip my corpse.
The accident is really what stands out in my mind. The blood dripping everywhere is what colors the photos, not age.
Such a stupid thing. Icy road, a sheriff who thought he knew his town well enough that his lights weren’t on in the dusk. Of the three of us, I think I was the only one happy that he lived, happy that I would not be left behind.
I had the money, and the devotion. They moved in with me. He eventually begin to walk again, but the burns never left him without pain. First there was alcohol, and then he added morphine. I was blind to it. Even now, I can’t find it in me to blame him. Ever the loyal dog, I suppose.
That was when she approached me. Who was I to say no? I had chosen my leaders, and I would follow them. I would say yes, do as I was bidden, and then go to my bed and sleep alone. She wanted a child. And I was strong enough stock to take care of that. He could still potentially father children; no one would have to know. She knew that I would never tell anyone. I would do anything on her terms.
It was only a day. A week. A month. I’m not even sure. Not even a photograph with its garish realism could tell me now. It felt like a second and like eternity.
I knew that she could be cruel. It was a trait that I suffered through and thanked her for. Every barb she shouted was a successful bid for her attention. Cruelty was not restricted to our, I cannot say relationship, to write “our relationship” would dirty the word. Our interactions? Our training? Our mutually enjoyable business transactions?
When she got her wish, I knew it would end. I was only the donor for her play, never a central figure. I would get the balcony seat and have the star kiss me on the cheek as a generous benefactor. No stage time though. That was for them.
And so our little drama should have ended. With a whimper from me, and no second glance from her. I underestimated her. I do not know what happened that night. I have my suspicions. The cruelty, the pain of it all. He found out, and it was not my doing.
Two bullets for her, one in the stomach, one in the heart.
I found out later. Too late to do anything but mourn.
I walked into my house and met him there. Gun to my temple his hand shook. From the physical pain, the morphine or rage, I cannot say, though knowing him, I believe it to be the rage. He did not speak. I did not answer. We stood there, two men, incomprehensible to each other. He did not understand how I could, I did not understand how I couldn’t.
“She asked you?”
“Yes.”
“Then I take from you what you took from me.”
Not with a whimper after all. With a bang. The hole is still there.
My masters are both gone.
The photos that remain are lies. Constructed of truths and light, they still show a façade I know is not real.
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