Photo by Liza Polyanskaya on Unsplash.

Writing inspired by the following SWC prompt:

Out Of Shot
Who hides their face whenever a photograph is taken?
Why don’t they want to be seen?

A Mere Speck

by Tina Eisl

I don’t like my eyes. They reveal too much. I will never look at anyone straight on, I will never let my picture be taken. I cannot be captured.

The mask I wear is too easy to pick apart when I am seen.

“Gather up,” they say.

I have perfected hiding myself. No one notices I’m not in the picture until it’s too late. Just a strand of hair, or a glimpse of a shoulder. No more. I will not give them more.

“Oh no,” they say, looking at the picture later. “You’re only a blur.”

I suppress a smile. Good.

If they had my picture, they could study me. They would see. No one must ever know.

I destroy all mirrors I come across. Subtly, so no one can tell I did it. A glimpse of my own eyes would end me. I would start screaming, and I wouldn’t stop until I lost my voice, until blood poured out of my throat. Until I died.

The fear. The pain. The anger.

Each mustn’t exist, so it doesn’t. I believe, as long as I cannot see.

“We’ll get a better shot next time,” they say.

I agree. Oh, what a pity. Next time.

Only there will be no next time. The day my picture is taken will be the day I am lost.

“What colour are your eyes?” they ask me, leaning down, trying to see.

I look everywhere but at them. Pretend I haven’t heard.

“You know, you’re really not good at making eye contact,” they say.

I grunt an acknowledgement and run away. No, that would draw too much attention. I walk away, but inside, I am running.

Why must they constantly immortalise their own image? Just perish, and fade from everything but a few select memories, until even those are gone. Leave nothing behind.

They will never understand me. I will never understand them.

It’s something of a game, really. Avoid the cameras. There are so many of them now. Be nothing but a faint impression of a person. A silhouette at most.

Or die.

Break, and scream, and die.

I don’t know what I look like. I will never know. My appearance is but a vague memory from days long gone.

I watch them all, and I know there is a freedom in my ignorance. I live, and breathe. Isn’t that enough? Must there be anything more?

No. I am a mere speck in the grand scheme of things, and a speck I will remain. They cannot take my insignificance away from me.

I will not let them.