When I was in high school, my parents brought me to Italy on a family trip. We stayed in a beautiful, rustic village. One of the nights while staying there, my parents decided to leave the hotel and leave me to do as I pleased. They told me I could leave the cramped, aged inn, and take a stroll amongst the seemingly ancient town with some cash to squander on whatever trinkets and sugary treats I could find.
Today, I wish that I had instead chosen to stay in the hotel room, but I grabbed my Nikon off of the nightstand by my bed, putting the lanyard around my neck, walked out the door, and strolled into town.
I was eager to explore the city. This was my first time leaving the States, and I couldn't wait to get a taste of European life. I was ready to take some nice pictures, buy some food, and experience something I never would back home - if only I knew.
I decided to find some especially nice places in town to take some pictures for my portfolio and to impress my photography teacher. I had some mental images of what I wanted in the pictures; some nice, dark, artsy shots of Italy. Maybe find some abandoned village area with some broken windows and collapsed walls to take some black-and-white shots.
I found one particularly dark street - perfect for the shots I was going for. There was no road, but more of an alleyway. The crumbling brick beneath my feet stretched between two buildings, and the farther I walked, the closer the buildings became. It induced a kind of strange claustrophobia, even though I've never experienced that kind of feeling before. In the darkest, coldest part of this alleyway, there were a few old wooden chairs, some sewage grates and stacks of barrels - most likely filled with wine bottles.
I looked up at the small stretch of sky not hidden by the stone building tops. It was nearly dark, and I knew I had to get a few more photos in before I no longer could. To my right were some dirty windows, surrounded by crumbling brick. Several broken two-by-fours hung from the corners of a few of the windows, lazily pinned into the clay with rusty, bent nails. I put my hand over my eyes as a sort of visor, and peered into the window, hoping nobody inside was looking right back at me. I couldn't even see what was on the other side, the windows were so dirty. I lifted my camera from the red and black lanyard around my neck, shivering from the cutting cold, and placed my finger on the button.
As the flash went off, I saw something in the window. Something I haven't been able to make myself forget, no matter how hard I try; something that still haunts my dreams. Looking back at me was a stark white face, bearing an enormous grin. The image is still burned into my mind, and I shudder every time I think about it. I can clearly remember its beady, black eyes, and nearly nonexistent nose - just two nostrils, almost cut into the area above the mouth, which practically curled up to its eyes, bearing black, bloody gums. I jumped back a foot, startled, and gasped loudly.
I didn't even end up taking the picture. I immediately released my finger from the button and dropped my camera, which dangled from the lanyard, pulling on my neck as it fell. I stood in the alleyway and clutched my chest, breathing quickly and heavily, ready to run back to the hotel. I slowly looked back at the window after regaining my breath, and there was nothing there. I didn't even consider looking through the dirty black and brown glass again.
I jumped again as I heard a raspy, piercing voice down the alleyway from me. It sounded like an old man. His voice scratched my brain like a bloody knife against a plate. Or maybe more accurately, against a chalkboard. So gruff it tore through a thick layer of my subconsciousness. I turned to locate the source of the inquisition.
"Would you like to purchase a caricature?" The Italian accent was heavy. I looked down the alleyway, fixating my view on a man, sitting atop a stool. He was very old, with a sagging, wrinkled face, and a long, black coat. I still don't understand how I hadn't noticed him while walking through the alleyway. Next to him was a large easel with a canvas on it. Drawn on the canvas in black pencil was a caricature of him. It wasn't over-exaggerated like other caricatures, but more accurate and lifelike. It even bore the same somber expression that he did.
