I remember the day it all started: a warm summer’s day, the kind where you want to bask in the sun instead of staying inside. Nobody else was out as I walked down the sidewalk. The soft scraping of my shoes against the cobbled stones was the only sound I heard. The only other signs of life were a cat on a balcony and a dog in a step. Both were asleep. Leaves and an old newspaper were gently blown down the street by a wind that would have laid down and died if it was any softer. My hands in my jean pockets and my camera around my neck, I continued down the road. Then I saw it. The perfect picture. A pink house, silhouetted against the blue sky, washing strong up along a line. I pulled out my camera, aimed the lens, adjusted my position and took the picture.

Flash.

Another perfect picture. I continued on.

***

Back home, I stepped through the glass door to the apartment building where I live. A tired bell boy lay on the stained couch with a wind-up fan pointed at him, turning the crank the soft whine of the plastic blades did almost nothing to alleviate his suffering. I smiled at him, nodded hello and walked upstairs, before he could ask me my name, like he did every day. I had never answered. I had never told him. I didn’t want him to know.

The wooden stairs creaked underneath my feet and the faded yellow lights overhead blinked and fizzed in the plastic holders. I ran my hand along the cool brick walls before turning towards the first door on the right. Pulling out my key with one swift motion, I slid it into the lock and turned.

It didn’t move.

I cursed softly and thumped the door three times before turning the key again. The lock screeched open and I shoulder thumped the door. A loud squeal emanated from rusty hinges. I squeezed through the small opening into my apartment.

A sheet was spread over a pile of old laundry. Random papers and printed photographs scattered across the floor like a second carpet. I danced through the mess and fell into the rolling office chair at my desk, turning on my old computer. I connected my camera with a USB cable to the main computer and moved the photo to my desktop. I then printed it.

It was all there. The washing, the blue sky, the green house, the…
Green house?
But it was pink.
I looked at it again. Green. Was I colorblind? I hurried downstairs and across the street, running out to the house. Pink.

I slowly walked back home. I was just seeing things. It would be changed once I got back. I kept repeating that thought as I walked up the stairs to my apartment. It would be changed. It would be changed. Opening the door, I walked toward the picture, face down on my desk, dreading the moment when I looked.

Pink.
Strange.
I shrugged it off. A trick of the light, maybe.

***

The next day, after a greasy egg-and-bacon sandwich in the small apartment dining room, I went out, looking for subjects. Luck smiled upon me. A young woman with her back to me stood silhouetted against the morning sun, a bird on her head. After asking her permission, I took the picture, ignoring her questions about my name and where I came from.

Perfect. Then I remembered the picture yesterday.
It was the light, I reminded my self. Nothing more.
I walked back home to print out the picture. I dragged it onto my desktop and right-clicked it. After adjusting some settings I moved my cursor down to the “Print” button. And stopped.

What if instead of color, something worse changed?

That’s not going to happen. It was the light. It’s all in your head.

I knew that the thoughts drifting around my skull were lies. I knew with the same certainty that comes over old people lying awake at night, knowing that this is the night they will go to sleep, and never wake up again.

The picture had changed completely. The background was now a black-and-white wall, papered with old-fashioned patterns. The woman was no longer a silhouette against the sunset. She was fully lighted up in nor glory. She was covered in eyes. As I stared at the picture, I saw one eye…blink?

They all turned and stared at me. An eye on her neck. One on her cheek. They all stared at me.

I screamed and began ripping the picture into little pieces. Those eyes stared at me, into my very soul. They stared at me with an accusing air.

You can never escape, they seemed to say. You can never escape who you are. You will never be able to hide.

I began panting.

You will never forget what you did.

I screamed and my vision went black.

***

I woke up in Chicago and began trembling. I had been here before. Forty five years ago. And here I returned every night. I heard the voice talking to me.
“You will get in and get out. Nothing to it.”
I looked into the face I hated, and said the words I said every time. I could never stop saying them.
“Right away, Al.”

He looked at me funny, with the scar across his fat little face twisting over the hills and valleys of his flesh.

“Most of my men would be beaten for calling me that. But you.” He pointed a thick finger in my face. “You’re different.”

I smiled. “I won’t let you down, Al.”
“Don’t push it.”
I grinned wider and left Capone’s office.
The stupid smile stayed on my face, no matter how much I tried to change it. Scarface. He had done this to me. Taken a naïve kid reporter and turned him into a lackey. I walked on to the bank, fondling the gun in my pocket.

***

Get in, get out. I walked over to the teller, standing behind bulletproof glass.

“May I help you?” she asked. I smiled and whipped the gun out. A Smith and Wesson Model 19. Six cylinder barrel, each holding a bullet that would fire at about two thousand, seven hundred and thirty six kilometers per hour into the forehead of the teller if I pulled the trigger. I slipped it through the small hole in the glass and pointed it at her.

“Ten thousand in a bag, now,” I snapped. “Unless you want the janitor to mop your brains off the floor.” White faced, she stared at me.

“In a bag. NOW!” I shouted, my volume startling her. A hand slammed down onto a small button. Alarms pealed. People began screaming. A gun. He has a gun.

Bang.

I reached past the teller and grabbed some bills, stuffing them into a small white paper bag.

“Thank you, and please come again.” I tipped my hat to the teller and turned the sign from Open to Closed. Gun in hand, I slowly walked out of the bank to see a policeman standing there, pistol in hand. I noted the surprise on his face before the gun went off again. He fell down. I looked at him. A pity he had to die so young. His mother would cry. His father would curse my name. I shrugged, before noticing the badge on his chest.

Chester Ashter.
I knew this man. He knew me.
I have often wondered what it would feel like to have your father shoot you before realizing who you are. Would it hurt, or would you be too dead to care?
Being the one who shot him was so much worse. The whispers pounded my ears. It’s your fault he’s dead.
I woke up.

Dear Reader,

This story has no clear flow, and ends at an abrupt moment. This is meant as a look at the world through the eyes of a madman, driven insane by his guilt and his dread of realizing that he only cared about himself. I intend by this story to illustrate the cost of violence, and the risk of finding that the person you hurt is your family or friend. I am sorry if you have PTSD from reading this, but it’s probably not well-written enough to cause that.

Thanks for reading, and remember to follow us, Elmar.