Warning. May contain NSFW themes or triggering themes. Read with caution.
Chapter one:
Born December 14th in 1978; I growing up only ever wanting to show
people what I caught with my
camera. I'd run home to show my mother and father the pictures that day from
butterflies in fields to Cars driving along the roads. I would spend hours just
looking for things that took my interest to not just waste my films, to actually
capture an image I wanted to remember and never forget.
Money was never easy and everything my family ever needed had to be worked
for, so when I reached sixteen to tell them I was going to be a photographer, I
remember my mother telling me that is a hobby and not a job. But this was also
the same woman that tore up my photo-album when drunk. She had no faith in
me, it was like she hated the fact I had something I cared about.
My father on the other hand was a little more compassionate. His words were
simple.
"Son, if you want to do photography, then you are paying for it yourself. The
money I saved up for you and slaved for will go towards a decent education and
nothing more."
I had a choice, it seemed, to do something I cared for and loved or go to college
for something universal. It wasn't for me to decide as a few weeks later, I packed
my bags and headed towards New York.
I had money saved from little jobs shy of Seventeen by a few more months, i
faked my age when I applied for jobs, taken my first in the city as a Valet for a
hotel company. I was there for fifteen months. And the money I was making was
going towards rent and food, hardly anything for the college I wanted to go too.
Chapter Two:
One day I was at work, when a job fair was taking place and the hotel I was
working for was Hosting the Event. I was meant to be stuck at the doors, valeting
but something with me just had to see what else was on offer, so I took the risk.
Asking a colleague to cover for me I changed into my normal clothes and made
my way inside the Event.
I gazed and stared. Looked and read. Witnessed all that was on over until I saw
the NYPD table. So like all the others, I checked what they had.
"Detective? Pfft..."
"Personal Assistant. Nah."
"Forensic...Nope..."
And then it was there....A title that appealed to me.
"Forensic Photographer?......"
Honestly, seeing the word Photographer just caught me, I was Biased. I would of
taken any job if it gave me a chance to use a camera. So I took the leaflet and
applied at the nearest Station to me.
I never heard anything for a few days and I was feeling like I didn't get the job at
hand.
I returned home after a days work to find a Letter in the box. So I entered my
small apartment, opened the letter and read what it had to say. To sum it up, I got
an interview....I was stoked.
Arriving at 1:15 Pm on a Friday at the police station, I came in with nervous
expectations.
I met my employee soon after being there and was taken through the interview,
providing all the information that was asked. And it seemed they were pleased to
take me on, since this role wasn't very......sought after. Being told about what I
could see, shown along with a few pictures, I will admit, I was a bit shocked but I
wanted this.....I needed this.....The money was good and it involved what I loved, I couldn't go on searching any more.
So, shaking their hand there and then I took the job and would be starting
Monday.
Chapter three:
I had been working as a Forensic photographer for eight months now, and I was
getting paid enough to start a two year Photographer course. Things were going
great, they were turning around for me and I remember talking to my father, who
was proud to know his son was working hard. My mother on the other hand, she
didn't say much as she was drunk most times I called. And I could tell by my
fathers tone he was growing distant from her, he had been for many years now, I
could always tell when younger. So I wasn't surprised when my father left her a
few months later.
On this day, I walked on a murder, a woman who was found dead, resting in a
position of her fall against a Sofa. It wasn't planned, it wasn't set up, it
was...random. But the way she had fallen left her in perfect position of the light
and her surroundings were beautiful.
I remember just staring for a moment, she was like a model who was setting
herself up for a camera shot, and there I was with mine, taking her photos. I was
only meant to take a couple in a few angles, and by the time I got back to develop
the film I had taken twenty-seven.
Her name was Moira Daniels. A 22 year old who was strangled to death by her
boyfriend who was a jealous drug addicted fiend who thought she was having an
affair.
Taking her life and realising what he had done. He released her throat but it was
far too late, she fell and landed, so he bailed. He didn't get far, caught at least
eight hours later due to his finger nails containing her blood where he marked her
with squeezing too hard.
She was my first...Well, my first inspiration.
