With little rest, Charles spent every hour of his days in the search for The Lady, yet progress was stunted.
Days went by, but there was no result.
Anxiety was ripe in the heart of The Photographer.
Lately, he had begun suspecting that he was being followed. It showed in the way he carried himself, the way he walked.
Even now, with the cream umbrella in hand and the familiar satchel hanging from his shoulder, as he walked through the streets, he ticulously observed his surroundings.
He had this feeling that the gazes were only sharply directed at him.
But that was no excuse for where his steps were headed.
Once again, he found himself in the sa alleyway where he had pictured the dead girl. It felt like a calling, as if he was being pulled there by so unknown force.
Why he had done what he had done that day, as well as why he was back, felt like questions for the highly educated.
Trying to make sense of it on his own felt like a dangerous undertaking. Yet he couldn’t resist. He needed to know, desperately.
The simple thought fuelled his curiosity, which, he was afraid, would lead to him finding a taste for this ’unknown sothing.’
There was sothing nasty about it all, sothing awful, and sothing degraded.
But again, there was a body—not far from the place where he found the previous one.
It wasn’t right; it shouldn’t be right. Yet there he was, unbuttoning her blouse.
The answer was just there, the one that felt like relief promised by the stars. Yes, he would soon know what it was that led him to this.
Now exposed, her chest ca into his view. Unlike her face, it was unmarred and pristine.
There was no dignity in his actions, but the dead didn’t deserve dignity. In death, they weren’t much unlike his photographs. In death, they were closest to perfection.
But she needed more embellishnt. She needed to dress better.
With thin fingers, he undid her attire. He couldn’t leave the poor girl in such a sad state; he needed to arrange her right.
As he traced the red marks around her breasts, her eyes opened.
The whore wasn’t dead; she was asleep.
Their eyes t. A most terrified scream erupted.
Scrambling away from him, the terrified woman’s irises reflected his face. He was the reason she was afraid. He was the reason she was once again animate.
Ti seed to slow down.
His hand on her chest, he pushed her down.
His other hand rushed into action.
The sharp tip of the umbrella felt like the only thing that could save him. It pierced through her eye.
"Stop!" she cried.
Blood flew. The horrifying guttural sounds rapidly died down.
Again and again, he stabbed her. He couldn’t stop. Because if he did, he would find a corpse. So, he needed to continue, to prolong the discovery, to prolong the realization.
Gradually, like a machine with its batteries running down, he slowed down.
His hand stopped, and what he found was what he expected.
A dead woman.
Not a prey, not an animal.
Just a poor girl.
And he had killed her.
With blood sprayed all over his clothes, Charles collapsed on the cold stone floor. His hands shook as blood travelled down the umbrella and onto his wrist.
Heaving unsteadily, he let go of the umbrella.
His body shook. It provided a window into his inner frenzy.
A mont or two seed to pass in the cold of the alleyway.
As if in a trance, with his bloodied hand, he reached for her unmarred chest. Those red marks from earlier—he traced them once again, leaving a graffiti of blood on her breasts.
This is what his shivers demanded; this is what cald them down.
In a trance, he painted her.
As his free hand reached for his satchel, he heard voices from afar. They were drawing closer.
His head snapped, and his eyes searched the vicinity.
Nearby, he found a dumpster with graffiti on it.
He jumped to his feet, dragged the woman to it, and threw her inside. He removed her blouse and cleaned the blood trail with it.
"...gave her a..."
"Did you..."
The voices were drawing closer.
Hastily, he threw himself inside and closed the cover.
Nobody wasted food in the lower floors, so it was significantly less slly with little to no organic waste.
Through the thin gap in the cover, light seeped in. With her upper body propped against the corner and her head lowered, the woman looked like a serene picture of a sleeping beauty despite the exposed chest.
"Where did she go? I hid her."
"She didn’t escape, right?"
The voices outside clambered to find her.
"No, she was out, man. Cold and out!"
"Hey."
"What?"
"There’s blood."
The voices stopped, and Charles could hear himself breathing.
Suddenly, a thought crossed his mind.
’She’s dead, right?’
He observed the girl, afraid she might gasp and wake up.
For a mont, there was silence.
"Let’s leave."
Without another word, the two n hurried out of the alley. It would be a wonder if they ever returned.
The cara captured their fleeing figures extensively before cutting back to the outside of the dumpster.
Slowly, it zood in on it, but no Charles erged. Cutting to the inside, the man was revealed to be holding a cara in his hands.
One click. Two clicks.
With his breath held, he captured the woman in his photos. He may have taken life out of her, but now, he was making her eternal.
Out of anything he captured recently, for so reason, she ca closest to his ideal of a photograph.
Lost in his little obsession, a barely visible smile blood on his face. It hadn’t been seen before, and it wasn’t ant for anybody.
Even as he stuffed her in a wheeled trash can and dragged it behind him, the smile didn’t leave him.
He was, in a long while, not without direction.
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