shot
429 words | past Mike/Tom | written yesterday night
The crime scene is buzzing with hundreds of voices coming from every direction from outside the walls. Mike is sprawled on the couch, his eyes closed and his limbs splayed out like he’d been pushed and fallen on the couch. His hair is a mess. Across the room, Tom is staring at him with a knot on his stomach. They’re alone in the room, Tom, Mike, and Tom’s camera.
The phrase ‘they always come back to the crime scene’ rings around his head. He can hear the couple of scenester girls he saw earlier screaming or squealing or something from the other side of the thin door. He thinks the name has never been more appropriate. For all Tom knows, they could be happy or scared or hurt or under attack. He tries to clear his head but his mind won’t stop spinning, so he points his camera at Mike.
Now, looking from behind a camera is safe; you can watch without being watched. For once, Tom doesn’t know what to feel about this. He wants to reach out through the camera and touch, so badly that he forgets he can just walk across the room. He adjusts the focus and shoves at the back of his mind the memory of Mike’s skin on his. He detaches himself from who he is and the man he’s photographing and the way his blue eyes seem to shine in the dim light because that’s just a memory and it’s over.
It’s the sound of the shutter what wakes Mike up. He stirs and takes in his surroundings as if he hadn’t seen them when he walked through the door. It’s a nice backstage room, much better than many others he and his band have been at, but he doesn’t like it. It’s the tacky wallpaper design, or maybe the uncomfortable couches, or maybe the photographer that’s pointing at him with his camera. Like he used to do back then.
It bothers him, because this is supposed to be over, and because being pointed at with a camera lens feels like being stared right into your soul. And getting your picture taken feels like getting shot. Mike doesn’t think that the people who say that getting your picture taken will take away your soul are crazy. He doesn’t bother stopping people from taking his picture, though, because it’s already too late for that.
“Thought you said you wouldn’t do that anymore, remember?”
Tom looks up from the camera to smile bitterly at him. “Yeah, it wouldn’t be the first lie I say.”
The crime scene is buzzing with hundreds of voices coming from every direction from outside the walls. Mike is sprawled on the couch, his eyes closed and his limbs splayed out like he’d been pushed and fallen on the couch. His hair is a mess. Across the room, Tom is staring at him with a knot on his stomach. They’re alone in the room, Tom, Mike, and Tom’s camera.
The phrase ‘they always come back to the crime scene’ rings around his head. He can hear the couple of scenester girls he saw earlier screaming or squealing or something from the other side of the thin door. He thinks the name has never been more appropriate. For all Tom knows, they could be happy or scared or hurt or under attack. He tries to clear his head but his mind won’t stop spinning, so he points his camera at Mike.
Now, looking from behind a camera is safe; you can watch without being watched. For once, Tom doesn’t know what to feel about this. He wants to reach out through the camera and touch, so badly that he forgets he can just walk across the room. He adjusts the focus and shoves at the back of his mind the memory of Mike’s skin on his. He detaches himself from who he is and the man he’s photographing and the way his blue eyes seem to shine in the dim light because that’s just a memory and it’s over.
It’s the sound of the shutter what wakes Mike up. He stirs and takes in his surroundings as if he hadn’t seen them when he walked through the door. It’s a nice backstage room, much better than many others he and his band have been at, but he doesn’t like it. It’s the tacky wallpaper design, or maybe the uncomfortable couches, or maybe the photographer that’s pointing at him with his camera. Like he used to do back then.
It bothers him, because this is supposed to be over, and because being pointed at with a camera lens feels like being stared right into your soul. And getting your picture taken feels like getting shot. Mike doesn’t think that the people who say that getting your picture taken will take away your soul are crazy. He doesn’t bother stopping people from taking his picture, though, because it’s already too late for that.
“Thought you said you wouldn’t do that anymore, remember?”
Tom looks up from the camera to smile bitterly at him. “Yeah, it wouldn’t be the first lie I say.”