The man stood among a crowd of bustling people, camera held firmly in his eager hands, and scanned the area for something his photographer's eye deemed fit to capture in the film. His eyes took in only a couple of repetitive scenes: women and children rushing to meet their fathers and husbands who've returned from the war—while touching, it wasn't quite the picture he was looking for—and others celebrating the end of said war. The people could finally go back to peace, and that was wonderful. But that just wasn't…it. There had to be a better, more spectacular image for him to photograph; he just hadn't found it yet. Breathing out a heavy sigh of frustration, the photographer began to grow impatient with his lack of success and for an instant even debated turning back and trying his luck another day.
But then he found it. The perfect image; the photograph he'd been searching so desperately for. A wide grin stretched across his visage and a brightness brought life into those dull, smoky gray eyes as he commanded his legs to sneak him closer to his subject, determined to capture the very best shot from the very best angle.
His subject was a man, close to 5'7 or 5'8 in height he'd guess, and he was such a very, very peculiar looking man. The subject's skin was ghostly white, as if it held absolutely no pigmentation, and had almost equally as pale, shoulder-length hair that the man had messily tied back into a low ponytail; he appeared to have no care in how he presented himself and this only made him all the more interesting. The photographer narrowed his eyes in an attempt to better focus on the mysterious man's face, which in his professional opinion happened to be a very key element in the photo he was going to take; the man had the eyes of a devil, a deep maroon color that was only accented by how incredibly bloodshot they were—as if the subject hadn't slept in days. It was quite a frightful sight, but it didn't stop there. Quickly averting his gaze from his subject's eyes, he travelled further down and traced his gaze over the multiple ugly, scabbed over gashes littering the man's countenance. As a regular man, the sight was rather repulsive and made the shutterbug want to vomit up his lunch; however as a photographer, it was intriguing and no matter how hard he tried he just couldn't simply look away.
Shit, what a freak, the photographer thought, reluctantly continuing his harsh observation. As his creative eyes lowered, they took in the sight of a typical Prussian military uniform. He winced and immediately regretted his nasty thoughts about his subject. I can't help the guy looks like a zombie. Probably shouldn't be out in public. What's he thinking?
Shaking his head to toss those thoughts aside, the photographer focused his attention back on what was important: getting the shot. Raising his camera, he looked through it and squinted, concentrating on keeping his hands steady to get the best possible quality image of the damaged solider. He was so close, his finger anxious to press the button that would capture what he wanted; however, suddenly, the shot was interrupted. With a heavy breath of agitation, he lowered his camera and was ready to glare down the source of the interruption, but when he actually rested his eyes on it he couldn't bring himself to.
A gorgeous young woman with shining, beautiful blonde hair—which she kept tied up into a neat ponytail with a pink ribbon—and flawless ivory skin approached the soldier, seeming to actually be excited to see him; this came as a surprise to the photographer, for he couldn't think of any reason that anyone, especially such an attractive lady, would be eager to see such a horrendous man. Curious, the camera man inched a little closer to the pair—carefully, so as not to be seen—and watched as the woman halted in front of the soldier, observing him with her glittering pink eyes—a strange color for eyes to be, the photographer noted. She pulled the pristine white gloves off her hands, despite the chill in the air, and fearlessly reached up, tenderly brushing her fingertips across each of the soldier's facial gashes. This made the photographer cringe; he couldn't be paid enough to lay his hands on that face as she was. He wondered what caused her to be so brave as to commit to such an action and why her eyes shone with affection rather than repulsion, as the pink orbs should instead be conveying.
Perhaps feeling self-conscious under her unwavering gaze and touch, the solider raised his arm to gently capture her wandering hand, ultimately ceasing her exploration of the damage dealt to his face. Surprise clearly overtook her focused expression and caused her to regard him questioningly, as though she had no inkling as to what her actions were causing him to feel. He averted his eyes from her, furthering the photographer's suspicion of his shame, and ever so slowly relaxed his soft grip on her hand, reluctantly allowing his arm to fall limply by his side once more. The woman also lowered her arm to her side, the questioning expression melting away into a sympathetic, even loving, one as she stood on her tiptoes to press kisses on each of the revolting marks; this left the onlooker awestruck. This woman was actually in love with him, that broken shell of a man who hardly, if at all, revealed any clue that he returned her affections. What was so special about that soldier that he deserved such tender attentions from her?
The soldier whispered something that the photographer didn't quite catch, being so caught up in his jealous, bitter thoughts, and those colorless cheeks flushed a soft, barely noticeable tinge of pink. His lady smiled, a blush of her own claiming dominance on her delicate features, and settled back on the soles of her feet. Her lips began to move, forming a response to her solider, and no matter how hard the photographer strained his ears or how far he leaned in, he simply couldn't hear the words she spoke. He supposed it didn't really matter what she said; it's not as if what she was telling the solider had any impact on the photo he wished to take. The photographer sighed heavily and continued to watch the couple, wondering if possibly anything interesting would take place.
And it did, surprisingly. The lady reached forward with both hands, undoubtedly intending to hold her soldier's hands in hers; however, this was anticipated by the soldier and he, almost frantically, took a step back, holding his coat close to his body. This confused both the photographer and the woman. She frowned and appeared to be hurt by his outright refusal, the light in her eyes dimming with the surfacing of tears. Instantly noticing the water in her eyes, the solider opened his mouth, perhaps to console her or apologize, but in the end closed it and tentatively approached her, his eyes screaming out a silent apology for his hurtful actions. Tenderly, he lifted his right arm—the only one he'd been using this entire exchange, the onlooker happened to notice—and carefully brushed the tears out of her eyes.
Finally, the photographer thought, having been waiting for him to show some sort of feeling. It was the least he could do for causing such a sweet-looking lady to shed tears. The albino man offered her an obviously forced smile, trying to make amends for the harshness of his previous actions; however, his attempt at a smile only seemed to further her sorrowful state. Suspicion clouding her eyes, the woman hesitantly reached forward again and grasped gently the hand of the arm he'd been making a point to use; when she moved to clasp her left hand around what should have been his other, she found that her hand only met an empty sleeve. The suspicion transformed immediately into sympathy as she looked up at him, understanding now why he had been so quick to avoid her advances. Out of shame he averted his eyes and made another attempt to back away from her, though not so brashly as earlier; she wouldn't allow it this time.
Instead of grasping the empty sleeve, the woman secured an arm around the timid soldier and pulled him into a warm embrace. His eyes widened as a dumbfounded expression passed over him; all he could seem to do in his surprise was stand awkwardly in her arms. The photographer watched on, lifting his camera and focusing on the odd couple, waiting.
Finally, after what seemed to be a century, the quiet soldier found it in him to return the embrace. A relieved, tranquil look melted away the previously troubled one, as if he'd just realized he was safe; the war was over. Tears glossed over those exhausted, bloodshot eyes and seemed to soften them; his shoulders sagged as if a tremendous weight had just been lifted from them and he shamelessly rested his weary head on the woman's shoulder, noiseless sobs wracking his war-beaten body. For the first time since the photographer had seen him, this man appeared human.
Click.
The photographer straightened his back and put away his camera. He'd found it. Right then in a man's most vulnerable moment, he had found the perfect shot. It was beautiful. A man just returned from the strain and traumas of war, at his lowest moment, leaning on the woman he loved—and despite the mental and physical wear and tear that the fighting had done she received him with open arms. Such an intimate, personal moment had created the perfect picture…would it be right to exploit that…? The photographer bit his lower lip harshly, decision tearing at him.
In the end he opened the camera and removed the film, crumbling it up and tossing it into a nearby trash bin. While it hurt him to dispose of such quality work, he couldn't bring himself to publish something so personal—especially without consent. It wouldn't have been right. He sighed. There was nothing else for him to do now but leave; nothing else held the potential that photo had. Looking back at the couple, he couldn't help but smile a little. Moments such as that were too beautiful for photographs. No picture could do something like that justice.