The Camera: A Tragedy

I was walking along the road, camera in hand, on my way home. I had been stopping to take photos every now and then, and I was alone. As I crossed the road I glanced to my right as was my habit to make sure the coast was clear. A thought struck me: If I were to be hit by a car there and then (by which time I had already crossed, and lunged for the nearest tree), what would be the first thing a witness would look for? Would he locate my wallet and ID?

Or would he turn to my camera, to see what was perhaps the last thing that I had seen before the incident?

I could see it happening, right before my eyes.

The ghostly image of a girl not unlike me.

The car, coming around the corner in slow motion. It would be a white one, like one of those older saloons you see cruising around that look as if they've seen better days. It would hit her with a dulled thud as she turned in horror, too late. And the look on the driver's face would mirror hers, as he registered the inevitable moment.

She would fall, in freeze frames, as the rest of the world passed by. Her bag would hit the ground with a tinkle, it's contents clattering around inside, useless now. Her head hitting the ground with a sickening crack that bode no good news, dark hair splayed all round like a shroud. The silver camera tumbling onto the road and out of her slack grip. The driver would have stopped a few seconds after impact, the screeching of tyres echoing and muffled in the still, humid air. Opened the door and rushed out to examine the damage, keys left hanging in the ignition, dangling innocently.

He would kneel on the black road, hand moving toward the bulge in her pocket that was her wallet. And then...his eyes would see the camera, silver and shining in the fading evening light. His gaze would switch to it, his mind curious as to what was the last thing she had seen, the last beauty of the world granted to her eyes, now closed to the world.

Fumbling to find the power button, this piece of hardware suddenly more than just a camera. Reviewing the photographs, what would he see? And then, the small sreen flickers on, revealing a sunset reflected on the clouds in soft pastel colours above the shadows of buildings. Further back, the clouds reflected in a lorry windscreen. And again, the pastel sunset, but this time torn apart by two lines of barbed wire.

What thoughts would these images provoke in his mind? The sunset of her life, savaged by metal. And those same clouds reflected on the windscreen of his guilty vehicle. His hands trembling, and tears welling up inside. Here was her final legacy; images of nature, the last things that were imprinted on her mind.

The light fades, and the street lamps come on, one by one to light the darkness. On that deserted, little-used road he would kneel, the door to his vehicle still open. The sole witness to her passing. Still he stares at the photographs. Perhaps it was all meant to happen. Or perhaps not.

Slowly he gets to his feet and pulls out his cell phone. He dials a number: his estranged daughter's. He's calling to tell her he will be late for their reunion.

A buzzing sound disrupts the rhythmic beeping of the ring tone in his ear. He lowers his cell phone, a heavy feeling in his heart. A small light glows in the girl's pocket. The buzzing sound seems to be coming from there. Suddenly afraid, his blood runs cold as he reaches for her phone.

Pulling it out, he checks the caller ID.

A familiar number flashes on the screen.

Where can he have seen it before?

Then, he remembers his own phone in his other hand, still calling his daughter.

And cruel revelation hits him, as he recognizes the number as his own.