The following is a short story to start off my writing on Mirror. I hope you enjoy it.

“It’s a fascinating juxtaposition about the world. The picture says so much. What do you think?”

The female voice behind me made me turn my head. She was obviously looking at the same picture. A large photographic print of a urinal with a rose pot placed in the drain hung on the wall as part of a gallery display. The woman was in her forties, trying to hold on to her college years. I could tell given her tight facial features from cosmetic surgery. She wore an expensive dress and held a nearly empty wineglass in her hand. The woman reminded me of the other creatures inhabiting the gallery that night, full of wealth and even fuller of themselves.

Pathetic bourgeoisie witch!

“I think it’s crap,” I replied with a sigh. “It signifies the photographer has minor talent and copies other artists due to his insecurities.”

The woman’s puzzled expression turned to a bemused grin.

“I don’t think that’s a good interpretation. He might strike you for saying such things. I’ve heard he’s intense.”

Turning back to the picture, I nodded my head.

“Yeah, I’ve been called much worse. I’m a real bastard around entitled Karens.”

Her gasp and retreating footsteps brought a grin to my face. It was the only bit of fun I had at this boring exposition of my recent work. A necessary evil for keeping an apartment and food in the fridge while cutting into the time to actually create. Still, I wasn’t lying to the woman. Passion and intensity were the hallmarks of my art. I manipulated anything that stood in my way in order to create the perfect shots. The witch probably talked to the models who hated me.

Calvin used to bring my models into the gallery during my exhibitions. At least until the models talked about me. Any pretty face who signed up to work for me as a model were not different from a whore. I would use them as I wanted, even if it felt like torture during my shooting sessions. An injury here or there was a small sacrifice for art. That’s what clauses in a contract are for.

However, my reputation for putting models into hazardous conditions has created issues for me recently. The last fool fell onto the subway tracks, nearly getting himself killed by an oncoming train. While the shot came out solid, the model threw a lawsuit at Holt and me. It also forced me to change direction. Still, without the right type of subject to show the emotions of the moment, my latest work suffered from a clear lack of imagination. I knew it and so did the gallery owner.

When I walked into Calvin Holt’s office the next day. He was on his cell phone, and he waved me to a chair beside his desk.

“Well, what’s the verdict?” I asked when he finally finished his conversation.

“Bad,” he replied without looking at me.

That meant the gallery show sucked worse than I imagined when I left.

“You sold a couple of pictures, that’s all. I can’t have another showcase like that.”

I’ll said one thing for Calvin, he told it like he saw it.

“Alright, what went wrong?”

His blue eyes widened in surprise when he looked at me.

“If you don’t know, that’s bad! Your photos were just average. Hell, a first-year student could do better. But I let it slide, thinking maybe I wasn’t seeing something. The two that sold came because of your reputation. You understand what that means, right?”

I sighed, knowing the answer, but I didn’t want to face it.

“No inspiration and tired as a gray night.”

Calvin chuckled.

“Maybe you should write if you can’t get your camera eye back. I need you back to where you were when you came through that door a couple of years ago. Here’s some free advice. Get out of that damn condo and look for inspiration outside. Also, get away from torturing your models. Neither of us can afford that crap.”

“They sign a fucking contract!” I glared at him.

He knew I hated dealing with people. I like to call it one of my quirks. Most people think artists have at least one peculiarity and it was something I ran with to remove myself from the masses. Calvin gave me a bitter grin.

“Yeah, don’t play that game with me. We both know you’re a son of a bitch at heart. Hell, I don’t think you have a heart. No other galleries will touch your work because everyone knows about the sick things you’ve done to get your vision.”

He leaned forward.

“But you’ve got talent and I make money off of you so beggars can’t be choosers. Now, I will spell it out for you. You have to stay on top if you want to survive. You can’t do jack with static displays or sets. So, get back to people watching and their expressions. I’ve seen you pull out great stuff with the right subject. We both know you’re strongest with fear and darkness.

He leaned back and sighed loudly.

“Here’s my suggestion. Find someone who can handle your bullshit long enough to get some shots. Just don’t kill them. You have a couple of weeks before I call in Piper. She’ll have something for my next show.”

“Fucker!” I growled as I got up and left the room.

By the time I got to my car, I was still fuming. Calvin knew how to manipulate me. He just used my contempt for Piper to push me forward. The woman considered herself my rival after receiving an award from the arts commission. I saw it differently.

Someone must have talent to become a rival.

When I pulled into the parking lot of my condo, no new ideas came to me about fixing my problem. Stopping the car, I listened to the end of a Killer’s song I liked about a murder. Still, with the improved mindset, I realized trying to find someone who would work with me with my reputation would not happen. The only thing that came to me was the idea of thinking outside the box.

While I hate metaphors, it made me look around at old warehouses along the street. Most were now converted to lofts, and I took in the architecture for inspiration. With an influx of Gen Z types with money, the neighborhood no longer looked or felt like a war zone. There were a few homeless still hanging around, but, mostly, you didn’t feel like your life hung in the balance by walking from your car to your condo at night.

Movement along the alley next to my building caught my eye. I noticed a young kid wearing his school uniform being pushed into the alley by some older kids. Curiosity got to me, and I quickly got out of my car and hurried over to the building. By the time I got to the corner of the building, I heard crying along with threats. When I rounded the corner, I saw a pack of young thugs beating the younger kid. The leader stood off to the side, rummaging through the kid’s backpack while the others beat him. Instinctively, I pulled out my iPhone and started taking snapshots. I knew the pictures were gold. Humans brutalizing humans is the essence of our world. Then I realized I couldn’t use them.

Damn, the bastards are too young. No parent will sign a consent form.

One young thug suddenly realized I was taking photos, and he warned the others. The leader dropped the backpack while holding their victim’s wallet. He glared at me.

“You got a problem?”

I almost smirked at the high-pitched voice, giving me the threat. But I’m an artist, not a fighter, and a coward by nature. They might turn on me as a gang.

“I’m just a bystander,” I replied calmly. “But the pictures are already in the cloud, so the police will have the evidence. I suggest you leave before they get here.”

The young punk’s eyes widened at the news. He quickly pulled out the money before throwing the wallet back at their victim, who remained in a fetal position.

“I’ll be coming for you if you talk to the cops,” the leader snarled at the young kid.

A moment later, the gang disappeared. The beaten victim lifted himself from the ground and looked over at me. But I turned away and went to the entrance of the building with a spring to my step. The incident gave me a profound inspiration. I could see it in my upcoming photos, a look at the instinctual ugliness of people. As I got on the elevator, a silly grin came to my face as a grand vision came to me. In a world of hostility, my camera would bring out reality.

Two days later, I drove my car to a tavern several blocks from my place. A line of Harleys parked near the entrance told me I found the right place. An old-timer who handled my condo’s maintenance told me about this dive bar. It appeared there were regular occurrences of violence. He also told me about a regular patron of the place named Joey.

After hearing about this place, I stopped over at the tavern that night and found Joey sitting at the bar. I glimpsed his face in the mirror behind the counter and froze. He had tattoos covering his lower face, which looked like a mask from a distance. Beyond his skin decorations, Joey had the features of an orc with biceps bigger than my thighs. He wore a sleeveless denim vest with a large death’s head logo stitched on the back of his vest.

Yeah, the old-timer warned me about Joey’s affiliation with a biker gang. Only later did I find out he was the headman.

Gulping down my initial fear when I saw him, I approached. Luckily, he said he was in a good mood that night. I’m sure it helped when I laid down a couple of hundreds to set up my session for the next night. The orc gave me an icy stare but nodded understanding when I explained my plan was an act of revenge. I left the tavern still in one piece and made a phone call to a special person’s secretary the next day. A man who once laughed at my work during my first exhibition.

It’s funny how you never forget certain things!

The night of the main event, I drove through the tavern parking lot and found a well-lit spot across from the building. Backing my car into a stall, I pulled out my digital camera and preset the lens and electronic exposures for the night. The camera was small but powerful for just such occasions. No need for a flash with the outside light, giving me plenty to see as I reviewed my test shots. Then, I waited for the star of the show to arrive.

A red Corvette pulled in about fifteen minutes late and, to my surprise, a couple got out of the car. Of course, I recognized Bruno Lip. He fashioned himself a connoisseur of everything fashionable in the city. Dressed in an expensive suit, he waited for the woman who stumbled as she got out of the car. Bruno’s date was an exotic Asian blond wearing a tight red dress that carried plenty of sexiness. However, the pair looked so out of place that rubbed my forefinger and thumb on the bridge of my nose, then let out a sigh.

Will they even go inside?

My brain went into overdrive, thinking about all the things I might have missed. For a moment, I considered the idea Bruno might get back in his car when I saw his face. A worried expression caused his date to ask about the tavern. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but I noticed him looking around.

Come on! Take the bait! Your secretary promised you a surprise.

After another look around the parking lot, Bruno entered. I rolled down my window as the couple entered the bar. A smile slowly drifted to my lips. The man had a gallery like Calvin in the fashion district. My call to Bruno’s secretary informed her a promising photographer liked to hang out at this bar and some of his work was on display inside. Of course, it was a lie. All I could do was wait at this point and hope Joey came through. The additional money I promised him should take care of my revenge and get me the pictures I needed.

I heard a small crowd roar not long after the couple entered the bar, but nothing appeared to change outside. After a while, I saw three large men wearing the same cut off denim vests over their t-shirts like their boss, Joey. They came out of the front entrance and went to their motorcycles. The loud rumble caused me to jump as the men started their motorcycles, then pulled around to the side of the building. A moment later, two other women, overweight and dressed in the same biker vests, came out of the side entrance. Bruno’s date, terrified and crying, stood between them and they pushed her to the closest motorcycle.

“Get on, bitch!” I heard someone ordered the woman in the red dress. “It’s initiation time!”

With a sneer, the rider took off while his blonde passenger screamed for help. Laughing, the female gang members climbed behind the riders of the other motorcycles. Savage cries of triumph filled the air as the gang left the parking lot. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Bruno’s date would be busy with the gang for the night.

Well, Bruno’s got his own problems!

Immediately after the motorcycles left the lot, the side door opened again. This time a body came hurling out of the blackness and landed on the asphalt. The suit looked familiar, but someone had torn the jacket to shreds. Bruno rolled around on the pavement in agony, and I hurriedly opened my car door. Joey came into view, calmly stepping down to the parking lot.

“Please — whatever I did — I’m sorry. Just let me leave,” Bruno begged as he got on his knees.

With a sudden speed that startled me, the big orc, Joey, reached his victim and started beating him. I hurriedly got in several pictures of the damage. Then I stopped after suddenly remembering to pull my hood over my head. The delay cost me because when I framed the scene in the viewfinder, the big orc was done. He headed toward me, standing up with the hairs on the back of my neck.

“Money!” Joey growled.

Immediately, I pulled a wad of bills and handed them to the man. He flipped through the wad with blood covered fingers. When he glared at me, I thought I would pee myself. I forgot I could be a victim just as easily.

“I better not see my picture, or I’ll rip your head off.”

The thug walked toward his hog and soon drove off in the direction his gang took. I remained frozen for a moment, then got my nerve back and hurried over to Bruno. The man lay semi-unconscious, blood covering his face. To be honest, I barely recognized him. However, I started clicking off shots from various angles. Finally, he slowly came around and I backed away to my car.

A moment later, I drove off. Catching Bruno’s figure still rolling around on the asphalt in the rearview mirror, I let out my breath. Already, I focused on turning the pictures into something for my next exhibition.

A couple of days later, I picked up my pictures. Enjoyment wasn’t the correct term, maybe satisfaction better explained how I felt. The large tabloid size photographs lay sprawled across my table as I surveyed the work before getting them ready to matte and frame. The work showed the brutality of a beating, up close and personal. Bruno was unrecognizable because of his injuries and my efforts in editing.

As for my victims, I found out that Bruno somehow got himself to a hospital. According to the information I had, he had a concussion. Bruno had little recollection of the events that night. His girlfriend showed up at a clinic on the other side of town. It seemed she had no intention of reliving her experiences with the police.

That evening, I sat at the table, looking at the finished pictures with a glass of wine in my hand. A sense of relief struck me at the ease of achieving my vision. Even though the event cost me more than simply using a model to fake the beating, the authenticity of the picture stood out in its sheer violence and immediacy. It reminded me of Browne’s great shot of a monk’s stoic self-immolation during the Vietnam War.

Beautiful!

In a sense, I felt triumph as I gazed upon the photos. The feeling turned into relief as well, since I knew I was back. As I changed my position to look at the photos from various angles, I frowned when I heard the radio in the other room. The classical music stopped to change over to the local news.

Must be nine!

My thoughts turning back to the pictures, I realized I needed another similar series of beatings to provide balance. Maybe something with women brutalizing others in a group. Of course, I needed to find another victim and work out the details with Joey, so my thoughts drifted to that detail. As I was thinking about the biker gang, a news item caught my attention.

…several bodies retrieved showed signs of torture. The police believe the men and women had ties with a gang fighting…

Intrigued by the statement, I paid more attention, then heard the name of the gang. It was Joey’s! Immediately, I walked into the living room, but the newscaster was already on the next story. Walking over to my open laptop, I sat down with a slow dread filling me. I hope he didn’t get himself killed; I thought. Luck wrapped her arms around me when I found that gang and I needed assurance they could help me with my next project.

Web searches quickly came up with the latest news, and I ran through them for specifics. The first thing that grabbed my attention was the name of the other gang, a Korean group called Seven Star. I thought it strange since I had never heard of this gang in our city. Then again, it’s not like I’m friends with the underworld. The only items I was clear about seven bodies found in a trailer just outside of town held signs of torture and execution. This happened only a couple of days after Bruno’s beating.

Leaning back in the chair, I downed the rest of my wine as I went over the events of that night. As I thought it over, I remembered the girl had Asian features and probably had ties to wealth, considering the women Bruno Lip dated.

Was it a coincidence?

A chill ran through me as I pondered the possibility of a connection. When I determined my victim, I never considered the possibility that Bruno had ties to the underworld. Even if remote, my neck was on the line if the victims had connections with this Korean gang. The news reporting the use of torture on the dead gang members gave me even more reason to be careful.

After searching a while longer and not finding more information, I racked my brain. Finally, I headed to the tavern. I needed to determine if Joey was around. He didn’t look like the type to scare, so I planned to grab some cash on the way.

When I arrived at the tavern, I waited in the car and noticed there were no motorcycles in the parking lot. As I’m waiting there, thinking about my options, I see an expensive black car pull into the lot. The dark glass windows hide people inside. It slowly drives through, then out the back of the lot. Suddenly, I let out my breath, slowing the fear screaming for me to leave. Still, I needed information, so I slid out of the car and looked around several times before going inside.

Pushing through the front door, I immediately noticed there’s nobody in Joey’s chair. I sat next to it and asked the bartender about Joey. The guy’s eyes widen and he’s looking around as his face pales. It took a minute for him to respond.

“Yeah, I heard he’s disappeared. Some guys came in asking about him last night when I was closing up. They gave me the same chills that Joey did.”

“Really? So, it’s like the news is saying. You sure they weren’t cops?”

I prayed after my question, but, of course, the angels pissed on me.

“No way,” the bartender groaned as he leaned closer. “They looked like something from a damn mobster film. Dressed in black suits, long coats and sunglasses. The guy had an oriental accent; I think from Japan or something.”

Or Korean, I thought as I quickly left the bar.

As I went home, I thought I saw a car tailing me but decided it was my imagination after taking a series of alleys and roundabouts. Still, I was more than nervous. I stayed confident about my separation from the gang if they caught Joey, because I never used my real name. Yet, the nagging suspicion remained. After a couple of glasses of wine to steady me, I decided to leave the city for a while.

Better safe than sorry.

After calling a cab and throwing a small suitcase together, along with my camera bag, I waited downstairs in the lobby. At first, I considered taking a straight shot to the airport, but then I got smart. Forcing the cabbie to stop at a subway terminal, I quickly descended to the tunnel.

The subway ride was slow as I kept looking around, but I didn’t notice anything suspicious among the passengers on the train. A couple of stops later, I got off at the main terminal. Then, I went over to the main platform which led to the airport. Pushing through the turnstile, I noticed two men in black trench coats. The fact they wore sunglasses at night inside seemed too damn obvious. Immediately, I took a quick turn and waited by the corner next to the stairs that led underground. Peering around the corner, I let out a breath when I noticed the men walking to another stairway.

I’m too jumpy!

On the platform, I moved around the groups, keeping my sights on the stairs behind me. Fortunately, the men in the trench coats did not appear. As I stood by a large pillar that smelled like piss, the sounds of the approaching train caught my attention. The crowd filling the area slowly worked their way toward the edge of the platform. I joined in behind two couples speaking in a language I didn’t recognize. Obviously tourists, since they were taking pictures of nearly everything with their cell phones.

“Chilsung-pa extends an invitation,” a choppy voice with a foreign accent whispered close to me. “Now head to the exit on your right.”

As the words came to my ears, I felt a hard object shoved into my spine and my mind scrambled, before the absolute fear overwhelmed me. I dropped one of my bags, which landed on a woman’s foot in front of me. She turned, giving me an evil glare. But when I saw her expression change when she saw the man close behind me. She actually pulled up her cell phone to take a picture of us. The insanity of her action broke me out of the gears locked inside of me. My thoughts turned to survival.

So, I go with them and die slowly, or I run and try not to die!

Nodding, I started moving toward the woman, then swung my camera case around. However, I was too close, and my bag knocked her arm as it came around. As the woman’s cellphone flew into the air, I heard a minor explosion near me. The expected pain didn’t come, well — not at first. The inertia of my case coming around forced the man in the sunglasses away. Then, my body gave out, and I went to my knees as I faced them. Screams and yelling filled the platform as people scattered. The assassin quickly lifted his pistol toward my face and fired.

Isn’t that too cliché of a look?

The immediate pain that suddenly filled my head drowned out my thought. I didn’t hear the shot, but I felt the blow and a scream filled the air. Maybe it was my voice, I’m not sure. All I felt were millions of hot pokers stabbed into my left eye. I couldn’t think and my hands refused to lift to my face. I could only wriggle around like a worm as the pain seemed to last forever.

One good eye opened and I’m staring at the subway train. I’m on my side, seeing the filthy marble floor and unable to move my head as blood trickles down my nose. Continuous flashing makes my eyeball move to scan the train windows a few feet away. The pale faces stared at me while recording my demise. I couldn’t move, even as I coughed out blood. My breathing grew shallow. The fire inside my head slowly faded, then I couldn’t feel my body any longer. All I could do was stare at the crowd on the train.

The scene made my brain scream. Vapid people standing there with their cell phones busily snapping pictures and making videos of a dying man. They resembled a herd of wildebeests standing around while a pack of lions devours one of their comrades.

Then, a single memory returned. A small kid in the alley in a fetial position while others beat him. I never knew the boy, and I didn’t care to know him. Rationally, the abuse I witnessed was nothing more than a subject for me to use as a pretentious display that held no soul.

Yet, no regrets came. I already understood there is no such thing as humanity. The term implies compassion and sympathy, and those taking the pictures have no such feelings. Otherwise, they’d be on the phone calling for help, or taking down the murderer. Like them, I’m soulless, only a voyeur in life.

Soon, the images would spread across the world to show their online friends. Their action would feed even more ugliness underlying humanity because people emulate their darkness.

Their pictures were a perfect statement next to my last piece of art I left on the table.

But I could only take the thoughts with me to the grave. As an inky black descended over me, I came up with the perfect title for my last picture.

Bystander!

FINIS