Chapter 7 – Subconscious Memories
If there were three things Mark Cohen loved in the world: heroin, sex, and his camera, in that order. Mark especially enjoyed combining former two, and when he could combine all three, he was truly happy.
Mark Cohen was officially a sell-out, though not in a traditional sense. True he wasn't working for the tabloids and twisting and editing his footage to make the story look as bad as could be, no, he was worse; he was filming porn. His money was running out, and with no clear source of income Mark was getting worried. He still had Collins as a roommate, and that helped extend the time he could get away with not paying rent, and it helped even more when Collins brought in a new roommate. Mark hadn't really paid attention to him; he always seemed standoffish and was constantly at work. His name was Benny something something the third. He only remembered the third because the prick said it every time he introduced himself.
But despite the roommates, his addiction was sucking up all his money faster then he would like; so he struck a deal. In return for his services as a camera man his dealer would supply him. The man even gave him a new camera, the latest technology you could find in a handheld. Mark hadn't know what he would be filming when he made the deal, but the idea of free smack for doing something he enjoyed enticed him, and now that he was working he had too constant a supply of the drug to care what he was filming.
It was usually the same set up where he'd arrive at the warehouse, the dealer would give him his drugs, and then after shooting up they'd go to the "Studio" and shoot. He was never in the movies themselves, nor did he ever touch the people who were in them, but he enjoyed it none the less. The carnal expressions on the faces enticed him, and he was happy enough to let them have the real fun. He also never got to keep his footage, it was always taken immediately by the dealer, who would rough cut it himself enough to start selling.
Complaining about the situation just wasn't possible, he had everything after all. But one day, after crashing from his high, Mark began to seriously try to remember what he had shot that afternoon, or the afternoon before it. He was alarmed at how little he remembered, but he did began to contemplate and try to recollect as much as possible. He scribbled down what he could remember, writing it on the back of a pizza box. He had just enough talent to do rough sketches of people, so he closed his eyes and relaxed, doing an old trick he had been taught years ago. He brought the pieces of memory to the forefront of his mind and began to sketch on the box, not looking at what he was drawing, for that would influence it, he turned the shadowy memories over in his head, waiting until he was sure he would have something solid come out of his sketch.
He was curious to see what emerged from his memory that he didn't actively recall, his subconscious memory, but when his pen finally stopped moving he was reluctant to open his eyes. – What – he thought – will I find? Would I be concerned? It can't be that bad – he figured – after all, if it was I would have remembered it, right? – he opened his eyes and stared at the cardboard box, amazed at the image that greeted him.
It was a little girl with her dress in rags at her feet, with a single tear coming out of her eye.