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Click -- XRay Photgrapher

RideOnTechnology's picture RideOnTechnology
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I know I'm not supposed to post stories here, but I want to so I will. ^.^

This is a bit from a novel I'm working on and it's still a little choppy, so cut me some slack (please!).

I sat on a stranger's bed - the kind with the cheap, burgundy colored comforter and patterns shaped like a two-bit motel logo - the comforter they only use when my type come around - staring at the ground as the consumer in front of me takes a swig of foul smelling alcohol. Undresses me with their eyes, makes eveything okay in their head.

"Think of it as if you're a model. They're taking pictures; just look good," Daniel would tell me. Look good and destroyed.

Click.
You don't have to smile.

Click.
You don't have to talk.

Click.
You don't have to breathe.

And all of these nameless people that run into you at night, they're your photographer. With benefits.

You don't even have to pretend to be ready. Because the more broken you are, the more they want you. Ruining something beautiful, it's addicting to these kind of people.

Think of it as if you're a model.
Click.
You don't have to live.
Go away somewhere. Come back when I'm done.

I thought of Daniel, my mentor. His father had solicited him since he was ten. He was a philosopher, a scholar, and a prostitute. Maybe I look weak or naive, because he took me under his proverbial wing.

Those old scholars and psychologists, english teacher wash-outs you see on television, he'd explain, they defined the Heroes of mythology as those who gave themselves to others.

"So really," he'd say, "I'm a Hero."

He'd tell me about how, if you knew where to look, you'd find a gun in any one of out 'photographer's' roooms. It's always in the same place. He'd tell me, this was a monthly ritual, one you would grow accustomed to, so listen closely.

So wait until they're asleep and look in the drawer of the end table. The one where the lamp is.
Now take the gun into the nearest of the five bathrooms and look at yourself in the mirror. You with a gun. Listen to the screeching in your head, like violins in a tense piece. Your own theme music.
Now put the gun in your mouth and close your eyes.

Think of it as if you're a monster.

You don't even have to care that they'll have you to clean up in the morning, before the spouse shows up.
You don't even have to think.

Click.