Photogenic

Prologue

He was on his usual bus yet again, camera in hand, lenses pointed out of the window. His day was essentially empty, and who really needed school anyway? His parents had shoved him through the whole system, trying to make him out to be the genius of his generation when he really didn't want to, he just wanted to take photos of pretty things.

His mother being of Asian descent had ensured that he'd been selected for Mensa the moment he'd recited Great Expectations to her during his bedtime. They'd ran several tests to try and 'understand' his brain, coming to the simple conclusion; he had an eidetic memory.

In layman's terms, it meant that ever since his brain had fully developed, he could recall everything. What people said, what they wore, their facial expression etc. It meant that his IQ was an astonishing number, and everyone expected him to go to some prestigious field where he'd somehow further the world's understanding of something.

So imagine their surprise when he turned out to be an art major.

His memory was as much a burden as it was a gift. Who wants to remember the days that weren't so good? Who wants to remember every snide look from your so called peers, or the expectations underlining every sentence your mother spoke?

Photography meant he could keep the best version of the most beautiful things in life. He'd be able to metaphorically carve beauty in his mind, and override the ugliness of reality.

It wasn't to say that he didn't love his parents, or his limited circle of friends. But sometimes they were just too much. When everyone comes to you for the most simple things, sometimes to test you, or just because they were simply too lazy to think about it themselves. But that's called being human, I guess.

The bus had paused at a red light, and almost as if instinctual, he pressed the shutter button, snapping a picture he hadn't expected to take. But this one was different, his camera had tumbled some way into his lap, and the crystal clear image in his mind was far better than any digital version he could've downloaded.

He'd 'taken' a photo of a girl. It wasn't that she wasn't pretty, but he didn't like remembering people's faces. They all had their flaws, and why would he want to remind himself of that every day? People would always be flawed, selfish and scheming.

No sooner had he 'taken' the picture, the bus was back in motion, and he only caught a glimpse of purple hair.

His mind whirled back, conjuring the image of the girl yet again, framed in the busy traffic of the city, letting him examine her features. Her hair was vibrant, but dulled in comparison to her face.

She was clearly the same ethnicity as his own mother, but from her ripped jeans to her sky high heels, they obviously had very different upbringings.

He didn't know how she seemed to look so perfect, captured within his version of a photo, but he'd found his muse.

All that was left was to actually find her.