[Summary] Say Cheese and Die!: At nine years old, he was lucky his dad had let him bring the family camera on his school trip. None of the other students had a proper camera––only the disposable sort that Colin really hated––and he was feeling pretty special about it.
A/N – Written for the Cards Against Humanity Competition:
The class field trip was completely ruined by a murder most foul.
I don't think I used this prompt very well. I got a little distracted.
Please ignore the weird double hyphens; I'm going to try and fix that tomorrow.
Colin trailed behind the rest of his class, camera clasped firmly in his hands, poised ready to take another photo.
At nine years old, he was lucky his dad had let him bring the family camera on his school trip. None of the other students had a proper camera––only the disposable sort that Colin really hated––and he was feeling pretty special about it. He even had a thick strap to go around his neck.
He raised the camera to his face, taking his time in focussing on the painting. A few of his classmates were in the shot, but he'd already been told off for telling people to move out of his way, so he did the best with what he could get.
The click of his camera sounded loudly in the suddenly silent room, and only then did he look up from the viewfinder. A teacher grabbed his shoulder, ushering him from the room with the rest of his classmates, the noise picking up as the screams began.
Colin glanced over his shoulder, instantly wishing he hadn't, and the image that he saw would haunt his nightmares for years to come.
.oOo.
He was clearing out his room, getting ready to move to his new school, when he found an old roll of film.
"Dad," he yelled down the stairs. "What's this from?"
"How should I know?" his dad asked. Colin could hear his loud footsteps on the stairs, and opened the door to meet his dad on the landing. His dad reached the landing, looking from Colin to the roll of film. "That's from a camera," he said with a smirk.
"Thanks, Dad. Helpful." Colin nodded.
"Do you want to go get it processed?"
"Now?" Colin asked.
"Sure. Why not?" his Dad said. "It'll be ready for when you get back from school. Or we can post it to you."
.oOo.
Colin tore open the parcel from his parents, digging through and pulling out the envelope of developed photos inside.
"What's that?" the girl next to him asked.
"Some photos," he said, pulling one out to show her. It was of a fountain, a little overexposed, but it had been a sunny day.
"It's not moving," she said. "Is it broken?"
"No." He frowned down at the photo. "It's a picture. It's not supposed to move."
He turned to the next, this one taken from the steps in from of the gallery. And then the girl. Taken hours before her death.
There were strange marks over the photo, and at first he thought he was seeing things. He flicked to the next picture of her, this one at a different angle, but still the marks were in the same place. Covering most of her face.
It looked eerily like the body he had glimpsed, and he flicked through the photos faster, heard beating quickly in his chest.
The last photo––the one he'd taken seconds before her death––showed a single painting, students standing around in front of it, though most with their attention turned elsewhere. If he looked closely he could make out his reflection in the glass covering the painting.
His breathing stopped, before picking up again, faster.
He tore the photo, dropping the pieces into the remainder of his breakfast, and ran from the Great Hall.
The girl called after him, worried, but he ignored her. He made it to the toilets just in time to throw up into the basin.
