Family Portrait

“Cameras steal your soul, right?” The famous model splays herself out on the couch beneath your softboxes. Her cherry-colored lips tease you. “You still have yours, secret boy?”

“Cameras sit,” you reply, your voice robotic. You have a voice changer sandwiched between your own lips and your mask. She’s right though. If taking pictures steals souls, yours would be intact.

“They say the same about guns,” she sighs. “Tell me, you own a gun? If you owned a gun, it’d probably be a big one...”

“We’re getting stale. Change.” You set down the camera, unwilling to look at what you’ve shot. None will work. She disappears to swap her wardrobe, and you become aware of the slick layer of sweat beneath the mask you don, but you’ll bear it. You’ve borne worse to maintain this identity, to survive. You are one of the top enigmas of the world, and you’d like to keep it this way.

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By the time you’ve gotten home to your loft, you’ve managed to slip free of your disguise and into another. The model would be stunned to get a look at you, as would the world. You are a woman, slender, tall, and flat in the front and the back.

It’s funny. To be good and successful at something while bearing anonymity led them to conclude you were a man. Maybe it isn’t funny.

You lock your many locks, and place your mask next to the hundreds on a wall. Opposite this is a bank of windows offering a view of the dark city. The third wall has a bed against it, and the last is covered in your images. Most prominent are a woman in a maid’s outfit, a man in a suit, and a woman with a drink in her hand. It’s her you call when you sit.

“Hey hun,” your manager begins. You push the voice changer to your lips. Your mystery extends to her as well.

“Leila, she was a scrub.” You rest your elbow on the table, suddenly tired.

“You always have some complaint.”

“If you’d get me professionals--”

“They’re all the top of their field.”

“Not when they’re with me.” You slap the phone down flat, conversation still on speaker. “They don’t take me seriously.”

“Really?” Ugly sarcasm.

“Get me better subjects. And I’m not sending over her photos.” You move to hang up--

“When it comes to clowns, things get scary when it’s serious.”

“What?”

“Take off your mask. You don’t want to coast on a gimmick.”

“Watch your mouth. Or you can find a new clown to work for.” You end the call and toss the voice changer on the table and before it stops its clatter, your head snaps up at movement against the far wall.

Some of the images there flutter. You stand, move your attention from the images to the windows. None are open.

The photos clap and flap violently, and you don’t know whether to investigate, or leap away. So you do nothing, your body anchored by your hand on the table.

“Did I say to leave your room?” A voice echoes through the loft. Unmistakable. It’s the voice of your terrible, dead father. He stares at you sternly, his arms now crossed. He’s moved in the image...

“Eat. Quickly. Before he comes.” To his right, your mother the maid leans towards you from the wall, and tumbles out and onto her two feet. Your dad follows.

“No!” You screech.

“Let the world in, clown.” Leila says as she steps from the borders of the two-dimensional print.

You cover your ears, squeeze your eyes shut, and shout.

BANG BANG BANG!

You look up. Nothing’s amiss. All photographed subjects are in their original poses, and there’s no breeze. The knocks come again. Not one person has ever come calling here.

It takes you a moment but you do get your feet moving in the right direction, towards the door. You open it to reveal a squat man with thin, pale hair and shiny, dangerous eyes. He raises a camera. You put your hands up and slam the door, but he lodges his foot between it and the jamb.

“It’s the Devil’s Photographer,” he says, “and I’ve been sorely missing your portrait.” He pushes an arm through the crack, and his immense strength blows you back.

You fall and scramble away as he pulls the camera back to his eye, his left hand holding a flashbulb high. You bump against the bed, and in a desperate move, fling the blanket over your head--

KRCSH!

What you can see of your surroundings flashes into daylight for a moment.

“What are you doing!” You scream. His footsteps near. You steal another glance, and he descends, lens centered on you--

You kick out at it, and the body of the camera slams into his nose, starts a flow of black liquid from his nostrils.

You leap up and past him towards the freedom of your open door, but it is shut by your mother, who then busies herself with the locks installed for your protection.

Your gaze turns upon all the people you’ve photographed over the years bubbling from the photos on the far wall, filling the room with their supernatural bulks.

You feel strong arms grip you from behind, and your dad’s snarling face appears over your shoulder.

“A family photo. Just like you always wanted.”

“Dad, no please.” You plead.

“I didn’t want this. I didn’t even want you.” He spits. “But you get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit.”

You’re forced into a chair and are surrounded now, your mother at your side.

“The attic was a much safer place for you, little girl.” She says.

A path opens in front of you, and the Devil’s Photographer plops his tripod down, camera framing this ghastly scene. Hot tears flow down your face.

“It’s just your soul,” the evil man says, “so smile on three.” He holds his flashbulb high and counts, the last number accented with the pop of the bulb.