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Not that it started as a business. I was just taking pictures of every little thing that reminded me of Tyler.
All I had was my camera, the only present my last foster mother had ever given me. Tyler told her she should get it for me for Christmas. He said if she wouldn’t, he would. He would’ve given me anything.
And so it started with me wanting to take a photograph of the snow around his old Chevy truck that couldn’t run anymore. The rusted-out hood. The flat back left tire.
I started taking pictures of everything, obsessively. It was something Tyler and I had done together and it made sense to do at the time.
I needed something and although I didn’t know what that something would be, I took photos of everything on my way to find what I was looking for.
Something to take the guilt away. Something to make me smile the way a boy who loved me in a way I didn’t deserve had.
Searching for Something.
What it turned out to be was profitable.
A myriad of photos all priced ridiculously high. In my opinion, at least. But that’s what everyone else was doing. The competition’s pictures sold for hundreds. And mine looked like a steal simply because of the price tag.
I adopted the “fake it till you make it” strategy. And it’s been working. But I don’t know shit about running a business.
The random person on Facebook shoots back an apology and I don’t bother to respond. My customer service isn’t the best either.
Some days are better than others.
Some days are filled with reminders of the past. And those days are the worst for me personally, but the best for the things I see and can capture with a lens. And they sell well. Not just well, like serious money.
The shots I’ve taken today don’t tell my story. It should be a part of my journey, but the pretty images of wooden frames and white tweed with pale blue accents are what I wanted before last night. Before I went to Iron Heart and ran into that asshole.
This is a décor shoot for a new life with new roots. It’ll look pretty on Instagram with a soft filter, but that’s about all it is. Just a series of pretty pictures.
My phone pings and pings with updates and I put it on vibrate before heading to the kitchen, where I place it on the table.
Next week is the kitchen makeover.
For now, it’s all black and white with pops of cherry. A red teapot sits untouched on the stove as I shove my sunflower mug into the microwave to heat up water for tea.
I doubt I’ll ever use that teapot.
My phone vibrates yet again, rattling the table just as the microwave beeps. A heavy sigh of irritation leaves me, but I know it’s not the messages, nor the headache from stress and exhaustion.
It’s because of Daniel. Just like years ago, I’m losing sleep over the asshole. Back then I never said a word. I let him treat me how he wanted, and I cowered away.
I’m older now and last night I should have said something. I should have gotten up and slapped him for being such a dismissive prick. Well, maybe that’s taking things a little too far. But he deserves to know how much it hurt me. How I still struggle with what happened and how him treating me like that only makes the pain that much worse.
As the tea bag sinks into the steaming water, an idea hits me to search for Daniel on Instagram.
If not Instagram, then Facebook. Everyone is somewhere online now.
With my feet up on the chic glass table and the mug in my right hand, I search both on my cell phone.
And when both of those prove useless I try Twitter.
The steady, rhythmic ticking of the simple clock across from me and above the little kitchenette gets my attention when my search proves to be futile. I stare at the second hand that’s marching along, willing it to give me an answer.
But time’s a fickle bitch and she’s never helped me with anything.
I take another sip of the now lukewarm tea before getting up for another cup.
As I wait for it to heat, I decide to search Iron Heart Brewery on Church and Lincoln Street.
