This is for Octave's The Tornadoes Are For You contest. Thanks for reading!
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Kevin Pots. Thirteen years old. Thick, brown hair and frighteningly light eyes. A little jaw, clenched. The photo cuts off at his neckline, where you can see the beginning of a navy blue top. It is not a sharp photo, nor of particularly good quality; but it’s enough, according to The Boss. It is all that is necessary. I look at it one last time, enlarged on the computer screen. It has become the most famous picture in the country, and the boy’s only been missing three days. Maybe it’s due to the peculiarity of the case. Disappeared from his back garden: left behind his football and three drops of blood.
“I want five pictures. Minimum,” The Boss says, shoving me out of his office. “And I want tears.”
I nod solemnly, and suddenly, his face softens. He rests a fleshy hand on my shoulder, and lets it sit there for a minute. I edge away from his touch. “This must be hard for you,” he murmurs, referring to her. I don’t say anything.
Once out of his office, I smirk. If he was any brighter, he would see that my sad eyes are but a ruse, my hesitation to get to the job a simple act of procrastination.
If only the poor man had a drop of intelligence, he would see that I love my job.
High-tech digital camera in hand, I step into my new blue ford, and begin to make my way to the house. It isn’t far, and, due to the smoothness of my car, I make it in ten minutes. That’s the beauty of being a photojournalist for a fairly big newspaper: on top of the excitement that every day brings, you get good money.
I park the car on Pew Street, a little beyond the Pot’s house. It is a large, red bricked house, with three floors and rich ivy leaves hanging tastefully by the front door. Now all I have to do is wait until they emerge. Peering into my rear view mirror, I notice another stationary car a little down the street. A man with dust-coloured hair is sitting there, staring blankly out of the window. He looks like he’s waiting for them, too.
After twenty minutes or so, the door slowly cracks open. A man’s head sticks out, and he looks up and down the street with caution. I duck my head, pretending to look for something on the car floor. I can’t scare him away.
No matter how stupid he is, I have to give it to The Boss: he knows his job well, if not his staff. After three days of stewing in their own worried juice, they’re gonna need to come out, he said, with a swift nod. It appears he got that one right.
When I next lift my head, I notice that not only has the man stepped out of his house, his wife has, too. And, following behind them, their younger son. I observe as they step on either side of the boy, wrapping him in their security. I can just see the headline: Kevin Parents Fear for Younger Son’s Safety.
I snicker at myself. I’ve been at the job far too long.
The small family edge towards the gate that separates their front garden from the pavement. I’ve seen pictures of the parents before, the day after Kevin went missing. They were just quick snaps, taken through a window by a colleague, thrown in the newspaper at the last minute. The Boss wants me to do better than that. He wants to see them in their so-called ‘natural state’; he wants to see them moving. And, as I silently scrutinize them, I realize how hard this has hit them. It is as if they are engulfed in a devastatingly heavy bubble; they walk sluggishly, each step looking so hard.
Perhaps the most unsettling thing is the little boy. His face, unlike his parent’s, is up, and his eyes stare straight ahead, not moving, hardly blinking. Only ten, and he already looks like a ghost.
My first thought is: this would make for a great picture. And with that, I step out of my car, duck behind the car in front of mine, and turn my camera on.
It is as I am taking the first picture that I notice the dust-colour haired man has unrolled his car window, and is subtly taking photos too. His camera is better than mine, and that frustrates me. The family, in the meantime, seems oblivious to the journalists slowly caving in on them. As they advance down the street, linked like a rigid chain, I get back in my car and drive slowly down the street and around the corner. This way I can get some good, distant shots of their closeness.
From around the corner, I whistle loudly, hoping to arouse their attention. Both parents lift their faces, and, hiding behind my car, I take several photos. Then, I zoom. Some good close-ups follow, but one thing bothers me: their faces are blank. They are not crying.
This will not do.
I don’t care that The Boss wants emotion. It’s me. I need to see their sadness. I need it.
I thrive on it.
But, before I can move, I am seen.
“Hey!” the father shouts. He runs towards me, his eyes squinted, forehead sweating in the mild heat. “You!”
His family race to catch up with him. Their bubble has burst. Or, rather, it has lost weight. Mrs Pots holds very tightly onto her son’s hand.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Pots demands.
I stand up calmly. This has happened before, and for me it is not a failure to be seen. This way, I can take some real close-ups, some photos of their anger, and suggest the headline: Parents Can’t Cope with Sudden Fame.
Mr. Pots repeats his question, hands clenched.
“My job,” I reply. I raise my camera to his face. Snap.
He makes a noise, something between a swear word and a scream. Next to him, his wife looks at me as if I was Filth. There is a moment of silence.
And, then, something incredible. The little boy begins to cry.
I push my camera to his face, capture his tears.
At that, my camera is knocked out of my hands. I look up. The mother is staring at me, arms outstretched, nose wide and huffing. Her thinning blonde hair curves around her tense head.
“You… you… can’t you see that we’re suffering enough already? Why are you doing this to us?”
Her eyes begin to water out of anger, and I bend down to grab my camera. It appears undamaged. Before she can do anything, I take a picture.
She lifts her arm, ready to hit me, but her husband grabs hold of her wrist.
“No, Nicole.”
He then looks me coldly in the eye.
“I’m going to call the police.”
I cock my head. I’ve heard that one before. But, in all my six years of photojournalism, the threat of calling the police has never turned into a reality.
“Sir, I’m just doing my job,” I say.
The woman’s eyes narrow, until they are little rips in her face.
“You bitch.” She pushes me before her husband can stop her. I stumble, but manage to regain my balance. She begins shouting, her words increasing in strength each time I take another picture. I probably have enough photos by now, but I don’t want to leave yet. I’m having too much fun. Then, the boy begins to speak, silencing his mother.
He looks straight at me, his pale eyes meeting my dark ones. His tears still run freely, but his voice is surprisingly strong.
“I hate you. And I’ll hate you forever. Forever!”
The exact words. The exact words. I stare at him, terrified. Suddenly, I’m shaking my head. I can’t stop.
My baby said those words.
Her eyes shone with anger, dyed black hair falling over her mouth. I tried to calm her, in vain. When she needed me the most, I neglected her. Too busy with my new boyfriend to even look at her.
She was only sixteen.
Next thing I knew, she was gone. She took the dog with her; her beloved Pipsy.
They found Pipsy, a week later. He was dead, hadn’t eaten for days.
But they never found her. Not a trace. It’s been seven years; seven bloody years.
Those words; they were the last words I ever heard her say.
I fall against my car, sobbing tears that won’t come. That is why I thrive on tears. I don’t have anymore. That is why I love my job. So much grief, it’s good for me. I’ve run out.
My shaking hands cradle my face. I whisper her name over and over again, Masha, Masha, Masha; I can’t stop. Her little kisses whenever I was sad, the locket of us that she gave me for my thirty-first birthday: There, she said, clipping it clumsily behind my neck, Now we’ll always be together. I don’t know what happened between us, but I know it was my fault. My baby changed; she was no longer sweet, curly haired Masha. She became fierce, rude, brash. But only in the day times; I heard her crying at night. She would sob for hours.
And I was too busy to care.
My throat begins to burn. I peek up from between my fingers, and see through blurred eyes that Kevin’s family are looking down at me, anger giving way to confusion. I look at the mother. She stares at me.
“Just go away, you mental bitch. You’re not wanted here.” Her voice is quiet, her tone like a thorn digging into a throbbing foot.
I grit my teeth, tear viciously at a clump of my hair. It eases my pain a little.
Her husband shakes his head, takes his wife by the wrist, and begins leading her away. Kevin’s brother follows them, but turns to look at me one last time.
“I bet you never lost no one!” he shouts. My camera is hanging on my wrist, but I don’t have the force to take a photo of his tragic expression. I don’t even have the force to breathe.
It is only when he is far down the road that I can reply.
“You’re wrong,” I whisper, fingering my locket. “I have.”
