Sebastian’s Final Photograph

As he was returning to his studio, Sebastian saw him. The man was hiding behind a long black trench coat and thick shades that made his face almost invisible. Nevertheless, there he was. His most despicable enemy had returned to the city after nearly two years’ hiatus. Although Sebastian didn’t have any idea why he had suddenly appeared, he certainly knew he did not want to be near this vile creature any longer than necessary. With a grimace of disgust, he turned to leave, walking briskly and pretending to be engrossed a phone conversation with some imaginary person.

He felt a sharp tap on his shoulder, and whirled around to find this man following him and staring at him intently, although one could not see through his sunglasses. “Sebastian Anderson?” said this man in a hurried whisper. “May I speak with you for a moment? Not long, I promise.”

“If you are the despicable, defiled person I think you are, I want absolutely nothing to do with you!” hissed Sebastian as he broke away from the strange man’s grasp. “You made my life a living hell two years ago, and have undoubtedly arrived now to reopen freshly healed scars. I will never allow my eyes to behold such an odious presence.”

“At least stop with your foolish antics,” replied the man. His voice grew softer as he furtively glanced around him to check for possible eavesdroppers. “I know full well that you’re not carrying on a conversation with anyone at the moment, and would never use a phone in public--or inside your home either for that matter, if you could help it! Please stop avoiding me, although I know you should. I’ve returned here to ask for…for your forgiveness.”

“I have no reason to forgive you for your deeds, for your animosity, and most of all for your existence, because it sickens me to no end,” said Sebastian with another shove at the man’s hand which refused to let go of his shoulder. “Why should I have to see you again, and why should you feel as if you have the right to approach me? Please disappear, this time forever. Find some faraway place to live out your days and never come here again.” His pace quickened, and his cheeks flushed with anger as the man doggedly followed him, panting to keep up. “I have my studio; that is all the company I need.”

“So I have seen,” exclaimed the man with a slight smile, as if he wanted to believe that Sebastian and he were on amicable terms. “You have become a renowned artist since we last saw each other. Painting, sculpture, even poetry! I have seen most of your works, and admire them all. You’re very talented. If I only had those capabilities, I am sure that I’d never leave my home again either, for the outside world seems very dreary compared to what you accomplish.”

Sebastian observed this person quietly, noticing that his voice had grown unsure and halting. It was quite obvious that there were no lies in his statements. Who could tell what might change in a mind over two years? Regret, remorse, humility. It was all there, but sealed under the same skin, the same human. Was it possible for Sebastian to despise this creature when his thoughts drifted one way, and accept him when they drifted another? Weren’t they subject to change at any time?

Stopping abruptly at a corner and causing people coming from various paths to skirt around him in annoyance, he “I don’t have much time to deal with you today, or tomorrow, or most any day for that matter. Know that you are on thin ice and that nobody will save you if you fall through it” he hissed. “I am glad you’ve enjoyed my projects. There are more, always more to come. If you’re interested, why don’t I show you around the studio while you’re here?”

Eyes cast downward, the man mumbled almost inaudibly that he would appreciate it very much.

“Good,” said Sebastian. “Hopeless as you are, I’m pleased to know that one sees my work as something unique against the parade of flowers, trees, birds, oceans, and other whimsical wastes of color that are seen often in local displays. Nobody can extract infinite joy from overused subjects that have little to no meaning in one’s life. Those who claim to do so are superficial and care only about ‘greed green.’”

The path was lengthy, and they passed multitudes of stores and other various buildings along the way. People screamed, laughed, and cajoled in merriment. Children jumped up and down in glee, as parents hurriedly but happily shushed them. Melodic music of wind chimes and the barking of energetic dogs could be heard in the distance. It was as if every part of the city was not just animated, but alive with the type of joy that only lasts for moments but is remembered forever.

“It will be several more blocks before we reach the studio,” Sebastian said coldly, snapping the joyous atmosphere in two. “I may as well tell you now about some of what has gone on since you left. Yes, I could wait until we were indoors where there would be fewer distractions, but I don’t want you in my home any longer than necessary.” The man looked at him expectedly. Sebastian always faced forward, refusing to make eye contact with him.

“As you obviously know, I became interested in art several years ago. I took several classes in drawing and painting, and practiced my technique daily, finding that it was not half bad. I could shade, add dimension to pictures, do everything that makes a subject seem like quality work. But I strove for something more than quality. I wanted a masterpiece! Many years of being jaded with the satisfaction of an ordinary, tranquil life left me with much ability and no fresh inspiration or ideas. Whenever I would attempt to portray a person’s face, the result would be blank and empty. I eventually gave up on the notion of becoming a successful artist. Successful in terms of quality, not finances.

“However, I have recently resumed my hobby with vigilance! My life has not showered me with splashing raindrops and vibrant rainbows, but with lightning, thunder, and fire! I have seen Hell, lived in Hell, and eventually come to know Hell as a friend, for it has been my faithful muse ever since. From experiences that have marred me faster than I could recover from their wounds; new ideas have constantly sprung and new worlds have flashed before my eyes. My colors are vivid and the lines thick with a thousand emotions sealed inside single sheets of canvas!” Sebastian spoke so loudly that a passerby paused to listen to him.

“You certainly have achieved much,” said the man, somewhat overwhelmed by all he had heard. “I heard that you’ll appear at a convention in two weeks to show of some of your finest work.”

“Local conventions sicken me!” shouted Sebastian. “I hate them. To mingle within a group of pretentious men and women who wish to spend the entire time walking about, staring creativity in the face with a laugh, a smile, or a judgment, is pure torture to me. They believe they can see eye to eye with someone’s soul, for that is all art really is. A soul outside a body, preserved indefinitely for the world to witness. They walk past several displays, make trite remarks to acknowledge that they have paid attention to a piece, and move on to the next. These people are revolting to be around. I’d like to see art look down upon humanity, for a change. If such a thing occurs, one knows that the piece is truly great.”

“Indeed,” said the man, amazed that Sebastian had made such a generous offer, and wondering if he should have accepted it, for he suspected a great deal about this “muse,” and feared he knew more about it than he wished he did! “I promise to respectfully observe your projects.”

“Oh, don’t worry. If I suspected that you would try anything, you would not be walking with me right now,” said Sebastian with a small, empty chuckle. “Here we are.”

The building was huge; it could have held five or six people comfortably. From the outside it looked decrepit, as if it had once been cared for, but had been untouched for years. The gray paint was cracking, some of the windows were boarded, and plants, withered and parched, crackled in the light breeze as they swayed to and fro in the small yard. The man looked up with amazement; never had he seen a “studio” this tall before.

With a sweeping motion Sebastian removed his hat and swung open the door. It was old, and its rusty hinges creaked. The man peered in, seeing mostly darkness. He could make out a few tables here and there, maybe an artifact hanging on a wall. Who could tell? Sebastian did not wait for his adversary to enter; he rushed in, refusing to hold open the door for his visitor, who caught it just as it was about to slam and apprehensively followed him.

“Is there a light switch anywhere?” the man asked the tall, dark blob in front of him.

“No light. This place is mine, and there will be darkness.”

“My apologies.”

The halls seemed incredibly hollow. The footsteps of the two men reverberated loudly as they walked along the cold, stone floor. The man couldn’t understand how two people could sound like a thousand in such a place. Everything was way too spacious; the place was much larger than it needed to be. Were it not for the steady clunking of shoes, he was sure that he would have gotten lost instantly, due to the lack of light and newly undistinguished rooms.

“I want to show you my latest work,” said Sebastian. “Consider yourself extremely lucky; absolutely nobody has seen it before. When we enter the room, you must follow my instructions in order to view it in the most effective way.”

“Of course,” said the man, not wanting to cause trouble.

Minutes later the two entered an enormous, cavernous room. One lone window shed light in a corner, enough so the man could see that there wasn’t a single artistic tool lying around. Surely there would be some evidence of artwork in a studio, but not here! In the center of the room lay a long table, and just beyond the table lay a massive object covered in a black sheet. He surmised that this was where the work of art was, although he didn’t know why it would be hidden from view. Why would it be covered, when it was already located in a secluded room, inside a locked building? These measures seemed ridiculous.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sebastian’s strict voice. “Take off your sunglasses.”

This was a reasonable enough request, the man thought as he slowly removed them to reveal large, innocent teal eyes that were open wide with curiosity. Specks of green dotted them as floating seaweed would an ocean, but the pupil overshadowed them in the darkness, so not much could be seen. He felt a backwards shove as Sebastian pulled the long black coat from his body. Sebastian stared fixedly at the man’s tall, slender frame.

“Take off your shirt.”

“My shirt? Why?”

“It’s simple for one to recite soothing words to calm he who has been brutalized,” said Sebastian. “You’re only saying that you want my forgiveness—do you? Will your intentions go beyond words, beyond comfort? Do you really care what I think of you? You will see the art regardless, so your decision rests only on how you regard me.”

Averting his eyes, the man said nothing, removing his shirt.

“Climb upon the table and lie on your stomach, arms stretched forward. Look in front of you.”

“Why?”

“The art will tower over you; you will strain when catching your first glance. Life would be quite dull if everyone viewed it from the exact same perspective, as many will at that…that CONVENTION.”

The man climbed upon the table, his nerves shaken quite a bit. What thoughts were running through his enemy’s head? He would go to great measures to repair any damage he had caused, but he didn’t know if he had the willpower to contribute much more. The table was made of some sort of metal and his knee grew cold when it made contact with the surface. The room itself was chilly, and when he lay down completely, it felt as if he had landed on a block of ice. Shivers constantly moved throughout his half-naked body, but not all were from temperature.

Suddenly, he felt clamps tighten around his wrists. Before he had time to retaliate, his ankles underwent the same treatment.

“You must remain still,” said Sebastian in an emotionless, methodical manner, as if he was a surgeon preparing to operate on a patient. “When one is thrust into unpleasant, unexpected, and unstoppable situations, stunning thoughts occur. These thoughts give birth to strange images, erase boundary lines and open a person up to dangerous worlds that originally could never be entered. I wouldn’t have you remain calm and feeling safe when reviewing the result of my anxiety, could I?”

“Ouch! What’s going on?”

“When you tolerate a certain level of discomfort, more needs to be added to generate the desired effect,” said Sebastian. “Even if you wanted to see what was being done, I doubt you could. You can barely move as it is, so just keep looking in front of you and shut up.”

Pushing the man’s back roughly to the table, Sebastian begun to paint, though not in the way most people would recognize.

With only a small pocketknife in hand, he cut a gash into his enemy’s back, feeling a slight upward jerk as his subject winced. Drops of blood trickled to his side, staining his hand. The liquid was warm, full of life and vitality that Sebastian wished the man didn’t have. After cutting a shallow line across the top of the back, he heard a groan.

“Just what I expected from someone like you. This is the way of my work. I felt resentment, and was struck. I felt anger, and was bruised. I felt grief, and was slashed. I felt, yes even humbled myself to feel remorse because the agony I received was so inexplicably intense that I wondered if by chance I deserved such treatment! But after I pled, bled, begged, cried, did everything one can do to demonstrate weakness and withdrawal and all that humiliates and designates one as a pitiful victim, I asked for water to quench the fire that burned at me. I only received fuel in return. And salt. Fuel and salt, both liberally poured over me so I would writhe in desperation. Somehow I survived. Now you as well as I must learn to transcend happiness and livelihood. It’s all necessary.”

No more outbursts, just heavy, laborious breathing was heard from the man. Sebastian calmed down a bit and drew the interior of a forest. It was crudely done, for there were only three trees, a small stream, and a stick-figured person carrying a bow and arrow. More and more crimson spilled from the man’s flesh, flowing onto the table, dripping onto the floor. The sound of blood hitting the floor became the gurgle of the stream, the object with the sheet draped over it became a tree, and he was the person with his weapon of choice, out for flesh and vengeance. As Sebastian became further engrossed in his work, his mind wandered and he found himself thinking about times before he had felt such hatred for his victim.

It had been a particularly sunny day for December, and the brightness seemed to illuminate the entire campus with warmth and color. Sebastian had been whistling quietly, and silently thanking the earth for such marvelous weather, when he passed That One. That One took to himself and refused to speak to anyone; That One had a vicious, dangerous look in his eye. That One was simultaneously feared and ridiculed by the entire student population at his university. Well, almost the entire population, for Sebastian had never said a word to him. However, the weather was bright and so was his mood, so as the two walked past each other, he did the unthinkable—he wished That One “good morning.” That One turned around in surprise, and muttered the same. By the time the vibrant sun had moved out of sight, That One had also done the unthinkable—befriended someone.

That One had a name—Anton Symington.

Later on, Sebastian and Anton had been through an extremely stressful week, as they were both reviewing for their final exams. They studied together quietly, when Sebastian broke the silence.

“I never asked you what you were majoring in, Anton.”

“Philosophy.”

“That sounds interesting—anything specific that you find fascinating?”

“Nihilism. Definitely nihilism.”

“Why that?”

“It explains my misanthropy,” said Anton with a laugh. “There are so many who do not seek truth or knowledge of the world they live in. They think that everyone must have faith in something, be it a deity, a person, whatever. In a world where knowledge is so easily obtained and truth can often be sought for most aspects of their lives, they choose to instead have faith in something that tells them where to go, what to do, how to live. They expect some vibrant finale at the end of the tunnel. But, if they are blindfolded, how can they see anything? In all of human history humans’ lives have ended, alone, painfully, and without any joy or compensation for their deeds, yet the new batch always believes it will be different for them, that it will be special. Maybe there is nothing for anyone but today. In that case, why let anyone direct it? I would love to see a world that is grandiose, accepting, and lovely in every way, but I have this one, and I know it is all I will ever have. I know that if I were ever to completely have faith in anything or anyone, my life would be ruined.”

Sebastian was taken aback. “Wow…” he muttered. “That’s very compelling. Well, I’m majoring in history, specifically European. Monarchies are also compelling to me.”

“Why?” asked Anton. “Aren’t they often cruel toward their citizens and other nations? Aren’t they greedy and exorbitant?”

“Precisely!” said Sebastian. “But fearful as well. It always seemed like a royal family could have everything they wanted—power, wealth, influence, you name it. How frightening it must be to live in such a position. Respected by all, and loved by none. To have those who are envious plotting to remove your head because they want what you have, and can never have it. I always imagined how it must be to be surrounded by glittering, dazzling fear of that kind.”

“That is indeed compelling,” said Anton, looking out into space, brain exhausted from excessive studying.

Time had moved on, and Sebastian and Anton were attending different graduate schools. Although Sebastian had enjoyed knowing Anton, he was looking forward to progressing with his life. He had been focusing on history of European art, which he admired immensely. However, he often thought of what he had told Anton about monarchs feeling fear, and he wondered if behind the forced smiles of those in portraits there was a mind full of torment. His mind was mostly full of annoyance. Anton had latched onto Sebastian like a dog to its owner, and it seemed as if he received phone calls from him every day, sometimes more than once. He also received abundant amounts of mail, mostly from Anton as well, containing numerous pictures of himself. After Sebastian had earned his degree, his desk drawers were crammed with hundreds of photos of his friend, mostly of his face, showing various moods and expressions. Some were in color, others in black and white, some small, some large, but each seemed to fill the room with a sense of confinement and dread.

“Are you studying photography now?” Sebastian asked Anton once during a call.

“No, I’m still studying philosophy. Why do you ask?”

Not too long afterwards, Sebastian had been studying abroad in Europe, and had researching a painting that had recently been stolen. While in a remote library, he had found this painting, concealed behind a stack of obscure art history books in the basement. The museum that had been displaying the painting was delighted to have it back, and rewarded Sebastian with a staggering amount of money.

Upon returning to the States, Sebastian bought a large home, established a career as an art critic, and was about to be married. When he told Anton this last part, the reaction had not gone as expected, for although Anton had been supportive of Sebastian’s financial gains, he sounded almost dejected when he heard of the marriage.

“But you’re so young, Sebastian!” said Anton.

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“But your life will be changed!”

“Yes, and all for the better, for I love her dearly. The ceremony is in a week. Will you be there?”

“It’s in a church, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes it is. Are you going to be there or not? You’re my friend and I would like you to attend.”

“It would be an honor.”

When Sebastian and his wife, Vera, took their vows, there was a clamor toward the back as Anton rushed outside through the back door, noticeably sick to his stomach. Sebastian barely noticed this, although everyone else talked about it for days on end. It wasn’t until five years later that he saw Anton again, and by that time he had a daughter and a son. He was now preoccupied with family and work, and lived a contented life. Thoughts of That One faded into the distance, until Sebastian almost forgot about him completely.

They met again on a freezing night. Sebastian had been going for a walk, alone, to a nearby bridge where the view was spectacular, when he saw that there was a person standing in the place he usually occupied. Slowing his pace again, he tried to avert his gaze as he acted like he hadn’t been planning to stop.

“Good evening,” he said as he walked by the person.

“You too, Sebastian.” The voice was Anton’s. Sebastian stopped.

“I haven’t seen you in ages,” said Sebastian.

“It’s been eternity,” said Anton, with an increasingly shaky voice. “I didn’t want to meet you like this! I didn’t! I didn’t want to!”

“What the hell is going on?” asked Sebastian, becoming panicked.

“I killed a man today. Here, right here,” stammered Anton. “He was smiling to himself, and talking on one of those portable phones, and I was standing here, desolate and thinking that there is nothing to justify the deprivation of life and laughter that I’ve suffered. I realized that all people are equal, though not in the way you are thinking. I realized that all people have the equal capability to destroy when they’ve been dealt misery, and the victims joy. So I choked him, until his face turned purple and he was barely conscious. The people on the phone were screaming, telling me to spare their life. Imagine that, me being someone else’s fate. When he couldn’t move any longer, I stuffed the phone into his coat pocket and pushed him into the river. He’s gone now. Far away, to the oblivion he thought he’d find!” He let out a maniacal laugh that pierced the silence surrounding them.

“Please, never see me again,” said Sebastian.

“I can’t do that.”

“You don’t have any choice.”

“You’re everything to me.”

“Everything?” Sebastian was becoming uneasy. “I can’t return that sentiment, for I have a family, and that is what’s most important to me. Leave.”

With a final glance at Sebastian, Anton trudged away, into the night. Sebastian walked home rapidly, thankful that his wife didn’t ask him what had happened to delay him.

The next day, there was a knock at the door, at two in the morning. Groaning loudly, Sebastian heaved himself off his bed and carefully opened the door.

“I said leave!” he yelled.

“I will, it’s just that I’m worried about you...your…family…wife…children…they’re not safe. They’re dangerous, I mean in danger…you…” Anton could barely speak for fear and his hands shook with worrisome vigor. Sebastian slammed the door in his face, locking it. Once again, he told his family about nothing, hoping that they might be spared from the walking insanity that visited him constantly.

The next day begun smoothly, yet during the afternoon the children kept complaining of noises.

“What kind of noises?” asked Sebastian.

“Footsteps, Daddy. Scratching. Is someone in the house?”

“Get your brother to the living room as fast as possible, and stay there!” said Sebastian as he ran to find Vera and tell her to hide there as well. Once everyone was inside and the door locked, they waited in silence. Sebastian and Vera each held a child in their lap, calming them down as best they could, staring at the door.

There was a knock, but not with a hand. A pointed blade hit the door numerous times, and then delicately scratched it.

“Why did you ever think I would leave you?” came a horrifyingly familiar voice. The blade ran slowly down the door from the other side until it reached the crack at the bottom, where it slid slowly under the door. It was the largest butcher knife the family had ever seen, and parts of it were slightly rusty. Vera screamed, and the children begun crying.

“Quiet!” said Sebastian. “We all need to keep open eyes and ears. Let’s not lose our heads over this while there is something we might be able to do. What it is, I don’t know. But be alert.”

The blade teased the entrance. “If I have nothing, why should I care if you have everything?” asked Anton. “Why should I control myself, and why should I protect the ones who have shunned me and dealt such a harsh blow toward me? Yes, Vera, yes, Robert and Penelope, I am talking to you,” sneered Anton as the blade sliced through the thin layer of air, back and forth in glee.

“I have a gun,” said Sebastian, covering the mouths of his children.

“No you don’t,” said Anton. “I know you don’t own one. I’ve seen your whole house. I’ve never left you. I doubt there are many moments where I have been less than fifty feet away from you. I’m quite good at becoming invisible. I doubt you never heard me once until now.” The knife disappeared, and Anton stood up. He tried the door a couple of times. Then, slowly, the handle turned, abruptly going to its normal position a second later. “You cannot escape me. What put that into your head?”

After teasing the door handle for what seemed like ages, Anton swung open the door, rushing toward Anton. He was an unusual sight, wearing an elaborate black, lacy bridal gown with a corset underneath. His hair was combed and shiny as it swished past his shoulders with every step he took. His eyes were lined with black, his lips bright red, and his cheeks pinker than any rose Sebastian had seen. Anton slid to the ground, grasping Sebastian’s neck in his hand, pulling his wedding ring from his finger and replacing it with a new one that was even more exquisite than the first. “Need we say more?” Anton whispered as he dealt Sebastian a severe punch to the head, knocking him unconscious.

When Sebastian recovered, he found himself facing the heads of his wife and children, distorted in pain and drenched with blood. He frantically looked around for Anton, but it was too late. Anton was gone.

The man’s voice became raspy and weak. “Stop. Stop. Stop…please. PLEASE!”

“Why?” asked Sebastian. “This is the best work I’ve ever done—the stream actually flows!”

“I’m dying, I’m dying! Please, forgive me! STOP THIS NOW!”

Sebastian lay down the knife, walking to the front of the table to observe the face of his adversary, contorted in pain and fear. His eyes were extremely wide with anguish, staring longingly into Sebastian’s eyes for help. His mouth was agape and his tongue out slightly. His long, tussled dark hair concealed a fraction of his face in such a way that caused him to appear helpless and vulnerable.

“All right, you shall see what you’ve been waiting for,” said Sebastian. The man’s eyes followed his every movement as he carefully removed the large black sheet to reveal no new creation, but a camera, enormous and foreboding. He felt his eyes begin to lose focus, and he found his neck falling to the table though he was trying to maintain its position. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was a tremendous flash of light, which illuminated Sebastian’s sneer of victory.

“The poor bastard didn’t realize that I do photography as well.”

Stepping from behind the camera, Sebastian rubbed his hands together in triumph. “Excellent, excellent! I have captured him right before his demise! This photograph should be sublime in expression and unprecedented in effort, for sure!” Loosening the clamps over the man’s limbs, he lifted the limp body and carried it to a large bag, callously pushing him inside without even a look of pity. No more blood was flowing, and what remained was scabbing. His intriguing eyes had closed, and muscles that had bulged when trying to escape his fate flopped around flaccidly. There was no more spirit to be eked from this person; he was merely a worthless carcass that had been used to its full extent. Sebastian flung the bag into a corner.

The photo was a vast success. Only the face was captured, and there was no indication of the wounds Sebastian’s victim had received. Critics around the world particularly admired the subject’s facial expressions. They all mentioned that nobody had been able to photograph one in such an “ethereally horrified” state before. Nobody knew the subject was dead, succumbing to maggots and flies, when they asked to borrow the person for their own artistic needs. The original photo was framed and rested between a portrait of children in sunbonnets (which had been outdated for awhile now) and a watercolor painting of a lighthouse (who lived near one?)

Elderly people in tiny spectacles made their usual rounds, treating Sebastian’s work as a joy, a celebration. They lavished compliments over it, pointing to the eyes, the hair, the shadows, everywhere in fits of ecstasy. Sebastian peered over and felt nauseous. When the ignorant people had gone by to look at other paintings, he saw the entire photo, feeling very weak. What did the spectators, ignorant fools, know of murder and revenge? The man in the photo knew. Sebastian knew. They shared a grotesque secret that was driving stakes of fear into his heart. The expression was for him, and the need for life that the man had experienced was powerful, yet piteously futile. Without warning, Sebastian began to fall to his knees, to the floor, until he was lying just as his victim had. Those eyes never wandered, though he wished they would. Perhaps he hadn’t understood the extent to which Anton, That One, had suffered loneliness and ostracism. He now wanted to give this tormented soul life, to rejuvenate him and bring him to how he was before the accursed photograph was taken, but to no avail. There was indeed no light at the end of that tunnel, even if there had been no blindfold either.

A crowd formed around him, panicking and suggesting, no, threatening to fetch an ambulance and deliver him to a hospital, then to his home. The idea sounded dreadful, so Sebastian leapt up and went home immediately, locking his door and retreating to the room where the masterpiece had been created. It reeked of putrid flesh and the table still retained remnants of blood. Not too far away the knife lay on the floor, stained as well. There was only one difference—and that difference was leaning against the corner, bent over in agony, and softly whimpering something incoherent, some of which sounded like “I love you.” Sebastian fainted.

They all raved about his style, his ingenuity, perspective, and more. Everyone thought that Sebastian Anderson had a promising career and a bright future, that he would sell thousands of prints and win prestigious contests. He was to be rich, and famous, and even more talented, everything he could possibly want, all from revenge.

One day later, a fan of the photograph was invited to visit Sebastian. The door was left unlocked, and she was given directions to the room where it had been taken. When she arrived, the room was dark; the lone window had been covered with the black sheet. “Hello, pleased to meet you,” said the lady. “I’m here to inquire about the availability of your subject. Are you Sebastian? I must compliment you on a fine photo at the convention yesterday, and I hope that you are feeling better.”

A slumped-over, limping figure proceeded to shake the lady’s hand. He could not stand up easily now, and fell back into his chair as soon as he had greeted the woman. “The subject does not wish to partake in any more photography,” he said. “Use that.” He pointed to the bag. Inside it something was wriggling. “Or, if that doesn’t suit you, you could always call the police, and notify them that the monarchy has been overthrown.”