Alas, it’s not all bad. I’m notcompletelyalone. Sure, I have my parents, who have spent the last twenty-six years trying to love me from an arm’s length away, and a half-brother who took off overseas as soon as he could. A best friend who comes around when she can.
But more than anything—or rather, anyone—I havehim. He has been with me for as long as I can remember—haunting my dreams and invading my waking thoughts. I have never truly been alone, not with him living inside of me and holding me together with his soft, warm embrace.
Benjamin.
He is who I share my thoughts with, who sits at the forefront of my mind and keeps me company. Sure, he doesn’t respond. But the image of him, the moments I have stored away in my brain, leave me ample material to reuse.
I’m unsure if Benjamin was the imaginary friend of a clinically depressed child—one I clung to and turned into something morepersonal as I grew—or if I’m conjuring a person I met so long ago I don’t recall it, only to place them in false memories of my own making.
Such as lying by the pool, bathing in sunlight. Or playing Monopoly around a dining room table.
But truly, it does not matter to me. I have a friend. Someone who is always with me. And when the night drags on, and I become too frustrated, I dredge up the memories where he becomesmorethan a friend, and those nights are nice too.
Everyone copes in their own ways—this way is mine. My secret friend, my imaginary lover.
Because in the end, it’s hard to be close to someone who doesn’twantto be close to others, and I can’t expect real people to fight against that constant current. So, it’ll stay me, my camera, and Benjamin.
Just how I like it—or hate it? Depends on when you ask, I guess. I’m still uncertain half of the time. It’s exhausting being me, so I can’t imagine how exhausting it must beknowingme. No wonder the locals hate me—and have hated me since I was little. I make them uncomfortable.
One perk of my life of solitude, though, is my job. I love photography, and being able to do it for a living is a huge gift. I get to travel all around the world taking pictures, selling them to magazines and different discovery channels. I even won a national competition with a pretty fancy payout recently.
It’s a nice setup, my job. Though it did take me a while to get here, and I probably wouldn’t have been able to if I weren’t as much of a hermit as I am. You have to dedicate a lot of time to sitting in silence up in the trees to get the pictures I do.
Just as I did this morning, though the turnout was not optimal.
Gathering the wood I have chopped thus far, I ignore my protesting muscles and head toward the back porch. I’m aching, which means I forgot to stretch after yesterday’s workout. I’m good at forgetting to do things that are meant to take care of myself. If Benjamin were here, he would have reminded me. I made him that way, after all.
He would have also reminded me of the meeting I have in ten minutes—one I am wholly unprepared for, as I’m covered in dirt and sweat. I drop the wood onto its designated pallet and find my way to the bathroom, taking a much-needed, insanely quick shower.
Then I dress and cross the hall to my darkroom, which doubles as my office when it’s not being used to develop photos, taking a seat at my desk and booting up my computer.
Adorning the walls are several of my own photos: various nature shots and a few of some Victorian buildings I’d passed on my many travels. I have none of my family, or even myself, and that, in itself, also makes me feel a bit lonely.
Even as I’m excelling at something, I can’t seem to invite the people I love into it—into my life, or my passions. In fact, I don’t like taking pictures in front of others at all. It’s why I don’t take up weddings and family portraits the way my mother used to suggest. Photography is my baby, my one thing. I don’t like the idea of others intruding.
And as I’m dwelling on those depressing thoughts, and how I’m destined to die alone (if we’re not counting my imaginaryfriend), a Skype call appears on my desktop, ringing loudly. Right on time.
I answer the call, Casey’s face filling up my screen as she sits at her desk. Casey is in an office somewhere, her dark hair loose around her shoulders and her grey pantsuit bringing out the blue of her eyes.
“Row, good morning,” she greets brightly, folding her hands on the table.
“Morning? It’s lunch.” At my comment, her smile tilts downward into a pointed glare.
“Don’t be a prick. I’m already irritated that I can barely get a hold of you these days.”
I shrug, leaning back in my chair as I watch her.“Fine, fine. What can I do for you?”
Casey is the co-owner ofCallie and Casey’sPhotography Outlet, the organization that ran the national competition I recently competed in. She’s the agent I spoke with throughout the process, and from the beginning, she’s found herself extremely comfortable with me. How—I do not know.
She’s even continued to contact me after the fact, informing me of contract opportunities and upcoming projects C&CPO is putting together. I keep reminding her that I’m an independent contractor, but she doesn’t care.
“I’m checking in on you, smartass. How are you? Do you have any work lined up right now?” she rambles, leaning into her screen further and further with each word.
“You mean to say, are you available for work?” I shoot back, giving her a small smile.
Casey smirks.“Well, we are putting together a booklet about the nation’s national parks, and I could use you. That’s your thing, right? Nature?”
Technically, yes. Anything nature or animal-related, I’m all over. But Ijustgot done taking photos for a magazine in Texas, and I still need to edit them and get them sent off.
