Developing Memories

The second the officer left Calla escaped back into her dark room to take the proper amount of time to go over he newly developed pictures. Rushing quickly to the back of the room she went for the stack of developing paper, and found her shots of that night. The media, police, or public could never understand what that smooth stack of glossy paper meant to her.1

She took them out into the living room and sat on her favorite chair, which happened to face a window that over looked the small town. Calla had gotten it at a yard sale for thirty dollars and had loved it like a child since. The second she got the brown lumpy mass to her house she covered it in a light pink sheet, and sat down to stare out that window transfixed by the goings on of a small rural town. It was a type of window to her, a medium between herself and the world that lay just beyond her. 2

A few weeks after she had brought it home, and sat in it for the first time, that same chair had gotten the distinct honor of being where she viewed her photo albums, and newly devolved pictures.  Every single one of her fondest memories was looked over in that chair. It wasn’t comfortable or particularly nice to look at, but it was big and fit Calla’s small frame better than any chair she could have bought on her own.3

She curled her legs underneath her body as she picked the stack of photos up. On top was the only picture she had taken any time to really look at, the handprint. The contrast in the grays of the photo and the grim reality of it was making that photo her favorite quickly. It would be one of the few pictures she had taken that was fit to be displayed on a wall in her home. No one would see any more than a hand on a thigh and some dark shadows.  She would know though, be able to look and smirk knowing the full reality of the photo when no one else did or could.4

Setting the handprint picture down on the coffee table she looked to the second in the pile. This was a shot of his body tied to the tracks. His muscles were straining against the rope and cold metal letting the slightest bulge of them be seen. The light from the flash managed to pick up and reflect off of each bead of sweat forming in his pores. Amazingly this enhanced his figure instead of obstructing it. 5

Then there was his eyes. Even through the lack of color in the prints and the distance at which the picture was taken anyone could see the pure expression of fear.  His eyes were better now than any memory of him pleading. All the pleading she could ever want or need was found right there in his eyes. If asked Calla would never be able to put the look in his eyes into words. You could tell he knew what was going to happen, and that he was ready to do anything it took to get his life back.  They spoke to her of regret for letting anything get this far, regret of all the things he’ll never get because he chose to be with a psycho. 6

Moving on she picked up the third picture this time it was of him after the train had passed. It was the same spot from the same angle only this time the solid mass of bone and muscle was ripped about the grass, pieces hanging everywhere. This wasn’t as clear as the other two pictures but she could see it in her mind’s eyes, which made it worthy of keeping. It was a good reminder of the noise of the impact, and the few silent seconds after the train had fully passed.7

Next came a close up of the track. There was metal and wood in the frame along with the rocks used as fillers. Dotted along the three objects were bits and pieces of her former love. It was amazing the transformation his hard body took on impact, like it was nothing. Pieces of his former self seemed to be cut into confetti and thrown about to please her, and he artistic sense. 8

Gray had been the right choice of her color scale on these pictures. The woods that lied all around fused into one large black bubble while the actual focus of the picture was lit by the flash bulb. This gave the metal of the tracks an iridescent shine, and the pieces of flesh dotting it a blunt reality that she couldn’t have planed out better.9

The next few shots were the same as the previous on in nature. They focused on some part of the track, and the bits of his that were left over on it. There were only around fifteen of these. The range of the carnage hadn’t been nearly as large as she had wanted.10

Nearing the end of the pile she spotted a picture that caught her eye. She didn’t remember taking it or developing it like she had the others. It was in the grass just off the tracks as a piece of wood and little white rocks could be seen in the right of the picture. What caught her eyes was a finger, dead center of the frame.  It shown brightly against the dark grass that surrounded it. The nail was chipped off at the top and then broken down the middle. Calla knew this was from her a week earlier not the impact with the train. She had accidentally dropped a rock on his hand while doing some work in the garden. It had to be that finger because the area behind the nail was black with dried blood. Something like that couldn’t have happened so quickly.11

Calla looked up from the picture, and out the window as a car drove by. With a sigh she set her head back down and stacked up the pictures. They could be put in an album later right now she needed to figure out a way to get the news crews off of her land. A tragic station fire would do.12

Soon the world would learn to leave her alone.13