Disclaimer: I do not own the Fobidden Game, or, very sadly, Zach. That honour belongs to L.
Summary: Zach was painfully aware of how, ever since they'd won the last game, he'd been slowly losing himself. Character study one-shot
Zachary Taylor sighed, raking a hand through his shaggy, dirty blonde hair, and stared dismally at the print he held in his hand. The photo was perfectly acceptable. Twilight lighting cast the surface of the lake as an opaque expanse of gleaming darkness, almost indistinguishable from the indigo sky. With the full moon seemingly suspended above, the photo had a disconcerting, almost surrealist quality to it, like a still from a David Lynch movie. Before, he would've been thrilled he could create such a haunting visual; the composition, the play of light and shadow was flawless. But now Zach simply gazed at the photograph, devoid of the usual thrill his art brought.
It had ruined him. He was sure of that. Zach was painfully aware of how, ever since they'd won the last game, he'd been slowly losing himself. The dark fire that had fuelled him, pushed him to try and capture the beauty of his sublimely twisted world in that one perfect frame had been burned out of him the second his eyes had locked on to those unforgettable cerulean ones. Taunting, malicious eyes that had pierced his very soul and changed...something. Something indefinable, yet as much a part of Zach as his cool grey eyes or love of Magritte. His world had been turned upside-down by Julian; hadn't all of theirs? But he had faced his fears, faced himself, and still survived. Hell, he'd even bonded with the insufferable Tom Locke along the way. That, Zach thought grimly, had to count for something.
And yet something had been irrevocably damaged within him. The shadows had lost their romance; they were a void, their endless depths all too familiar to Zach these days. Sunlight hurt his eyes. He could no longer lose himself in the world of his art, because he no longer believed in his art. Zach wasn't sure what he believed in anymore. The images on the glossy paper were just that – images. His recent attempts had been half hearted to say the least; occasionally, he'd find himself reaching for his camera, feeling a flash of his old artistic fervour, only to stare at the developed print and feel nothing. Looking down at the photograph, Zach slowly ran a long, elegant finger across its matte surface. It wasn't as if any of the photos he'd taken since the game counted, anyway. Zach knew there were only two that mattered, and they'd been taken a lifetime ago.
Suddenly, Zach found himself longing to get out the house. He'd go for a walk, buy himself a coffee, and surround himself with other people if only for a short while. His solitude used to be comforting; retreating into his own world had become a habit when the world of those around him became too much. Reality had that effect on Zach. Then Julian had come along and ruined his sanctuary; it was tainted, destroyed by those burning blue eyes. His photography, his artistic vision was no longer safe, because really, what was safe when you couldn't trust your own imagination? His work was to useless him now, contaminated. It was as though his experience in the shadow world had cleansed Zach of the comforting, familiar darkness he inhabited, and had left him numbed. Numb. That was the word, wasn't it? Zach thought, with a bitter laugh. Jenny had always accused him of being too disconnected, not caring about anything but his art. Ironic really. He didn't even care for his art anymore.
Abandoning the photograph, Zach picked his coat off of his bed and jammed his arms through the sleeves. Casting one last searching glance around the garage, he walked out the door, wincing as a blast of November air hit him. It felt good though. It felt good to feel anything strongly these days. Because maybe, if he could reconnect with the real world, he could put an end to this awful numbness.
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