Darkroom

A silhouette working away in dim light:

Busy fingers, busy mind.

Small sheets – blank Polaroids – falling like angels from the wooden desk.

A pinching stink of chemicals scurrying in the air.

The small red glow effervescing bokeh from the worn lampshade.

The silhouette moves towards the lamp and with one click, the room succumbs to darkness.

Shuffling is heard, discreet footsteps mapping the squeaking floorboards.

Somewhere, a door opens. A soft protest against disturbing the rusting hinges escapes like a refugee.

A stray stream of light breaks into the black.

The silhouette, barely distinguishable, turns around instantly, searching for the intruder. The door closes.

shwing – knife against scabbard.

Nothing else is heard.

The developing photographs are now a bloody mess.

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