Staring Back At Me

When I open the folder, there is only one photo in there. Weird. There should've been hundreds of tiny squares. What happened? My camera didn't display any errors this afternoon. Did I miss it? I was focused on the job, it being my first time and all. Or maybe the memory card was damaged somehow? My equipment became soaked while hanging around that putrid-smelling food cart. Crappity-crap. I really should take some waterproof bags and put more thought into my outfit when I go out next. Or, if, rather.

If I ever get another assignment.

Crap, crap, crap.

I thump the desk hard, once, then try to check my anger. There goes my money. I sigh deeply.

It's even more frustrating because it had been truly an exquisite setting today - with that type of soft golden light you rarely find on a rainy day. Alissa would've killed for something like this last year. Not that it matters much in this case. Whether you capture a man kissing someone who's not his wife while pushing her up against the grimy wall of a filthy alleyway, or while she's practically an angel floating across the middle of a golden-lit marble square - it's the subjects that make the money, not the setting. Still, the professional in me cannot ignore these types of details. Force of habit. It's been a hard fall from capturing A-list celebrity weddings to doing sketchy stakeout jobs for desperate middle-class spouses. At moments like this, I truly hate what Liam's done to me. Even though he was right and I would probably have been dead otherwise, I still hate him for it.

I take a deep breath, cross my fingers, and hope that the one picture that did survive is at least one of the good ones. Maybe I can still salvage this somehow. All I need is one clear shot that I can shoot off to Tammy Worthington-Haverford, undoubtedly soon-to-be Tammy Haverford. 

Double-click.

Well, sh*t. It's completely out of focus. The cheating bastards that I know are standing smack-dab in the middle of my picture, are nothing more than a dark blue blur. My mouse is already hovering over the 'delete' button when I notice something in the left-hand corner. It's probably what my camera focused on instead of the money shot.

I scroll to zoom in. The corner of the picture blows up and fills my giant 8k screen - bought when I still had money to spare. Two big green eyes with heavily mascara'd lashes stare straight at me from under a set of bushy dark brows. They're pinched together in a deep frown. An angry red pimple grows right in between - it almost looks like a bindi.

Wait. I reach up to my eyebrows and feel a similar bump under my fingertips. 

That's... me.

I'm looking at myself. On a photo on my own camera.

But... how? My mind starts racing. Did someone get a hold of my camera while I was there? Was I pickpocketed somehow? But that means someone took my camera, wiped my card, took one - just one - hasty picture of me, and then put the camera back. For what? To prove a point? Nah, a pickpocket would've just taken the camera and ran. It's worth over a thousand dollars. And if it was some type of social media prank, I would've either noticed or they would've told me. Right? 

Anyway, I'm pretty sure I had the camera in my hands the whole time I was at the square. At the very least, I never took the camera off of my body. I carry it on a strap around my neck ever since the Jackson Philips wedding cake debacle three years ago. 

But then... what happened? Is it some type of digital artefact, or did two old pictures merge somehow? But I've never taken photos of myself with this camera. I go and check the picture's metadata to be sure, and sure enough the timestamp and the GPS location check out. March 26, Paulson Square. Nothing weird there.

What. The. Hell.

I check the picture again and this time, I zoom in even closer. The pixels are razor-sharp. The person staring into my soul has the same high forehead as me, the same brittle greyish roots blending into an artificial auburn color, and the same Harry Potter-like scar I was teased about for a while in middle school just below the hairline. The face cuts off right at the bridge of the nose, but it's more than enough for me to recognize my miserable thirty-five-year-old face. I can even see that I've not penciled in my eyebrows very well this morning. There's a big gap in the left one, which makes it look like I've been in a boxing ring recently. At least my mascara didn't smudge too badly.

Alright, let's take a step back and think about this.

I walk over to my tiny kitchen, make myself some instant coffee, and crank up the electric heater to 5. I'm shivering and feel that my clothes are still not completely dry. Maybe a hot shower will jog my memory. I always get my best ideas while showering anyway. I might not be able to indulge in endless steaming shower sessions anymore, but it's still my second favorite thing to do after... no, let's not go there. Involuntarily, I'm picturing Liam's disappointed face.

I step into the small moldy room and run the tap to get the water nice and hot. I undress in front of the sink, letting my clothes fall to the floor. Then I look up to study my badly filled-in left eyebrow and -

I scream. I stumble backward and fall back against the shower curtain while continuing to scream at the top of my lungs. I slip on the damp floor, try to grab a hold of the cold clingy shower curtain, and go down with a desperate wail as the curtain comes down from its flimsy rod.

In a haze, I scramble to my knees and pull myself up at the sink. My knees are shaking. My heart is racing. As my eyes reach the mirror, I stifle another scream.

Who is this woman looking back at me?