Captured

Note: Mention of death.

The camera and lights were set up. I was ready to finally begin and finish this project being my self-portrait. My school’s art program opened up the category in the contest letting us students “create ourselves”. There was a one hundred dollar cash prize involved for each category. The idea sounded so refreshing to me. Art or not, I’d love to create myself—or re-create myself. I had one major flaw that I would like to be set free from. It made me feel incomplete, like there was one piece of the puzzle missing from myself. However, mentioning it to my parents made me feel bad. It was like speaking ill of their genes or something along that. Nobody can exactly help what they’re born with. You learn to live with whatever it may be and accept it. However, like many teenagers, I’ve grown to realize my flaws and confront them as if they were literal problems that could be fixed with a conversation between problem, parents, and self. But it wasn’t exactly that easy for me.

The whirring of my ceiling fan made up for the silence in my bedroom, blowing a gentle breeze around. The digital camera was positioned on two of my dad’s old dictionaries on top of a stool. I repositioned it every failed attempt—all in which I stopped the camera’s countdown timer altogether before the photo could be taken. The struggle was increasing for me. Why was it so hard for me to see the results? It had been hard for me since I was a little girl. Birthday party pictures were taken, never shared, soon to be deleted or torn up and tossed away—burned even. School pictures were once an option. But once the photographers started “having trouble” with their cameras, my parents ultimately decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. My mother was upset for many years. I think she’s gotten better for the past few years, as well as my father. When there weren’t any pictures of me taken, all was good in their world. However, for me, a teenager in the era of having friends with social media and plenty of parties for me to attend, it was like trying to confront a horde of zombies head-on without getting bitten. It was as if I was a vampire and a camera’s flash was my sunlight weakness.

“Get it together, Lena.” I told myself, huffing as my fingers clawed through my long, black hair. “This is take four-freaking-hundred at this point.” I stood five feet away from the camera, standing ahead of my blank, pale blue wall next to my closet. Setting up the shot beforehand, I drew my curtains closed and set up two blinding lamps aimed my way, casting my shadow against the wall. I was having my own little not-so-professional photoshoot in my bedroom and it was fun at first. When the nerves kicked in and my anxiety soared through the roof all because of one photo having to be taken, the fun was drained right from the atmosphere. I hadn’t seen a picture of myself in at least seven years. I hadn’t seen the flaw that ruined my image. But still, I wanted to do this project. I wouldn’t paint myself—that would be too easy. When painting yourself or anyone, you could remove any flaws. You could add new beauty. This picture was something I wanted to do, something I needed to confront. And what better way to do that than submitting my biggest fear to my school’s art program contest?

I stood there in front of the still camera with no countdown. Just looking at the lens brought goosebumps to my skin. The camera was doing nothing, yet it was taunting me. It was waiting to capture the flaw. The whirring of my fan returned to bother me when I had stopped listening to my beating heart instead of my actual surroundings. “Too loud,” I muttered, stomping over to the switch by my bedroom door and flipped it downward. The fan’s blades slowed to a pause. I returned to my spot in front of the wall, practicing my approach for the picture. Should I smile? Should I do a pose? Standing there perfectly still with no expression was art enough. Smiling or posing might ruin the art of the photo—or would it? I was overthinking again, like usual—maybe I should do that painting instead. No. I didn’t spend nearly two hours in my room just to give up now.

I approached the camera. I set the countdown timer—ten seconds. Finding my place back in front of my wall, I fixed my hair within the first few seconds. My arms flattened at my sides, my back straightened, my eyes zeroed in on the lens. I inhaled through my nose, holding my breath. The seconds ticked in my brain. It was like waiting for the doctor to give me my shot, and watching the camera was watching the doctor prepare the shot on the little table away from the uncomfortable bed I would be sitting on. There was silence. With my heart hammering in my chest, I took the final few seconds to reflect. 

I could see my mother’s crying face in my mind, paired with the sorrow clouding my father’s visage. For many years, I never understood why my parents were upset. Their feelings were a parasite that hitched a ride on me during my fourth birthday party. Apparently, from what my parents told me when I was ten, I was an ordinary little girl. I was happy, I was healthy. There was nothing wrong with me. They saw me as I was. During my fourth birthday party, my parents and relatives were present. It was a beautiful day in our backyard. A table full of food, cake, and presents was set up by my parents. My little cousins and I were running around the yard playing with one of their dogs my aunt had brought along for the celebration. There was absolutely nothing wrong with that day, other than it being a little emotional for my parents. I might've assumed they were happy seeing me grow up. My mother decided to get a group photo. We bundled together in front of the table, the adults smiling from ear to ear while us children made silly faces. My mother reviewed the picture with my father in private an hour after the party. It was their first time ever seeing it. I only saw the picture when I was ten, during the time they told me this story. And I could finally see what had haunted them for so many years and why they were afraid of me having my picture taken.

CLICK! The flash temporarily stunned me. I blinked twice, frozen in place in front of my wall. A gentle breeze brought me goosebumps. I looked up to my ceiling fan—still off. My window was shut and concealed behind my curtains. It was that breeze that held me back from checking the photo. That breath I had been holding in was finally released as I took a step forward. I got closer and closer to the camera, hands trembling at my sides. Rounding the stool, I stood behind it and picked up the camera. Closing my eyes, I inhaled once again, holding it. I opened my eyes and found the picture taken on the small screen of the camera. I had yet to exhale, even when my eyes widened.

There I stood, my shadow cast behind me in the photo. My hair, my eyes, my pale skin all reflected in this image. Earlier, I made the decision not to smile or to pose. I didn’t do either. I faced the camera with determination on my face. The fear of the flaw had been confronted. But it was also me that did the opposite. I had my hand on my shoulder, and I was smiling at the lens right next myself. Those goosebumps never did leave my skin. It had been nearly seven years since I last saw myself with myself. I was me, but I wasn’t. I was a figment of my imagination until I was captured on camera. But it wasn’t really me standing next to myself in this photo, or me sitting next to myself at my fourth birthday party. It was my dead twin sister.