Focus, aim, shoot. Focus, aim, shoot.
She holds on to these words as if they could magically guarantee that she will make it through this. It has become a personal mantra of sorts, a safe-conduct through the chaotic madness that seems to be stirring both within and around her. From her vantage point she can observe the events as they unfold before her eyes. People are running in every direction, their undistinguishable cries threatening to burst through the barriers she has been forced to build around her.
(focus)
Her sole company is her camera and she prefers it that way. She deftly adjusts the lens and checks the film before looking for her next target. Even though she has done this so many times, today it feels as if someone else had taken over her body while she is made to patiently watch from the outside. The feeling disturbs her and yet she is unable to shake it off. Her mind goes back to the faceless corpses she has had to slither through in order to reach the perfect location. She remains unfazed: standing proud, face upheld. She has a mission after all, and she bloody well intends to complete it. She reckons she would be a good soldier.
(aim)
Out of the undistinguishable masses she spots her subjects. A brother and a sister; the resemblance is undeniable. She is still admiring their compelling features when she realises just exactly what she is witnessing: one is wearing a nationalist uniform while the other is drenched in republican colours. The intensity of this unthinkable image, of the families that have been ripped apart by the war, of the way it denies blood ties and deconstructs reality draws her closer. Never letting go of her camera she observes the situation unfurl through the safety of her lens.
She feels like the puppet master, daring her subjects to play the part that is required of them. If she is honest with herself - and she seldomly ever isn't- she takes pleasure in having the power to make even death look beautiful; the power to turn the unreasonable, the unfair, the incomprehensible and, above all, the unforgivable into art. She is almost like a God in a God forsaken place.
She sees before she hears one of the two bodies dropping. She snaps. Wild eyes full of guilt and regret and a hint of accusation meet her on the other side. He is still standing, his spotless uniform untarnished by his sister's blood. He addresses her briefly, his desperation translating what she cannot understand. Why did you just stand there? Why did you let me do it? Her lack of response seems to push him off the edge. His gun is still dangling from his arm. He grips it firmly and turns it towards himself and even though she wants to, she doesn't look away.
(shoot)
She will regret nothing, and in the dark of the night that knowledge will devour her.