DISCLAIMER: not mine, yada yada yada
Last Shot: Sighing
by kaydee falls
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Mark had been on his way back home when he saw it. His shot. It was right there acros the street. Fumbling with the bag of groceries, he somehow got the camera on and focused. He still didn't think it would work out, but he had to try. The film could always get dumped in the trash if something went wrong, following reels and reels of its predecessors. But, as if he had scripted it, the shot was perfect. Breathtakingly perfect. Two long months he had searched for this, and it was there, on film, right in front of him. He wanted to yell, to jump, to hug a passerby. Discarding these options, he stepped out onto the street, camera poised, catching the image of the pigeon flapping away above his head.
He never saw the cab.
Jerked from his grasp, the camera went right on recording, capturing on film its brief but spectacular flight through the air, until it landed on the cold pavement. It bounced twice, then finally came to a rest. The lens was shattered, the film blank and dark.
* * * * *
Mark has got his work
They say Mark lives for his work
And Mark's in love with his work
Mark hides in his work
Images flashed through Mark's mind at an alarming rate. Angel and Mimi danced before his eyes. Collins dashed through the Parthenon. Maureen kissed him and fought with him. Joanne juggled instructions and cell phones. Benny smiled and laughed like he used to. And Roger's voice was always in his ear, hurling accusations at him, as Mark cowered and futilely tried to defend himself.
But from what
He realized that his eyes were still open, and somehow registered the inside of an ambulance. Why did he bother? There was nothing left to see. Nothing left worth seeing. After all these years, he understood that he had finally seen enough.
From facing your failure
Facing your loneliness
Facing the fact you live a lie
But for some reason, he didn't close his eyes. Not now, not yet. And suddenly, cold panic rose up in him. His camera! He had let go of his camera when the taxi struck him. Where was it? And, oh God, what if it had broken? His last shot, his perfect shot, what if it were ruined? Waves of pain, both physical and emotional, washed over him.
Yes, you live a lie -- tell you why
You're always preaching not to be numb
When that's how you thrive
You pretend to create and observe
When you really detach from feeling alive
The shot was printed on his mind, but now it was hazy. The sight of the ambulance, the medics, they were getting in the way. Frantically trying to ward off the pain, all Mark could think about was his final shot. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and was struck in the chest by burning needles of agony. So he breathed more shallowly. Very gradually, with each breath, he felt himself calm down, and as he calmed, his breathing grew slower and slower.
Perhaps it's because I'm the one of us
To survive
How ironic, Mark thought. He sighed, and closed his eyes.
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....still not quite finished, bear with me, R&R et al...