Maybe Next Time

Chapter 8

Two years later

Ellis' POV

The nightmare starts as it always does. Gunshots fill the air around me and the face of my closest friend comes into view, shouting at me over gunfire and telling me that we have to get out of here. But as always I refuse to listen to my friend. I want that one last shot and I'm not leaving without it.

Suddenly, there's an extremely loud gunshot from the side of me, followed by a loud scream, and I turn my head in time to see a sight I know I will never forget; one which will haunt me until the day I die. My friend lies on the ground next to me, with several bullet holes in his chest and his blood spilling out all over the hot, desert sand.

I suddenly wake up in my narrow and messy bed, breathing heavily and sweating profusely. It takes me several long minutes to calm my pounding heart down and get my breathing back to normal. I sigh deeply while sitting up and running a hand through my messy hair. I start to wonder if I'll ever stop having such horrible nightmares. I really can't remember the last time I had gotten a good night's sleep.

I reach for my phone which sits on the bedside table and check the time with bleary eyes, only to see it's just after three in the morning. I sigh again. I know I'm not going to get back to sleep now so I decide to get up instead, and as I slide out of bed I feel a familiar ache in my right shoulder. It's no where near as painful as it used to be but it's still a stark reminder of the day when my career ended for good.

After pulling on an old t-shirt I leave my dark bedroom, only to find an unfamiliar girl lying on the sofa in the lounge, half naked and covered with a black and grey blanket.

'Shit,' I mutter as she rolls over in her sleep. I really thought I had broken this habit. I really thought I had stopped picking up random girls in bars and bringing them back here. But it seems, ever after several long months of therapy, that some habits are just too heard to break.

As I look at her lying on my sofa I know my therapist is going to be severely disappointed with me, when I see her later on that day. And I can only imagine what my brother would say if he was awake right now. But luckily he's still asleep. I can hear his soft snoring from the open door to his bedroom, and I'm pleased he's not awake to see any of this as I know I would undoubtedly receive yet another lecture from him about my choice of lifestyle. Oliver has always been the sensible one out of the two of us, despite the three year age gap between us.

I wander over to the girl and gently shake her awake. 'You have to go,' I tell her quietly as she opens her tired eyes to look up at me, and without saying anything more I pick up her clothes, which litter the carpeted floor, and hand them to her. I then watch as she resolutely puts them on before she gets up off the sofa and hands me a slip of paper. 'What's this?' I ask her as she tucks one side of her short, black hair behind her ear.

'So you can call me,' she replies with a flirtatious smile, but it's a smile I barely return as I open the door for her and immediately shut it once she's left. I don't even bother to stand and watch her walk down the stairs in the tight, denim shorts she's wearing, which give me a  great view of her firm behind.

I screw up the slip of paper she gave me and chuck it into the bin in the kitchenette. I have to break out of this habit. I don't want to keep on getting drunk and picking up girls in bars just so I can sleep with them.

I look around at the pristine and clean studio apartment Oliver and I share, and I'm relieved to see I hadn't made a mess in my drunken stupor last night, when I had stumbled home just after two in the morning with the girl with the black hair.

I pick up the black and grey blanket and drape it over the back of the plush, black sofa where it belongs, before I glance at the expensive, digital SLR camera which sits on the small shelving unit which covers the wall above the false fireplace. My eyes are then drawn to the few framed photographs which decorate the white walls; photographs I had taken myself when I had still been at the top of my game and which Oliver had insisted on displaying.

It's still hard to believe that just two years ago I was a top photojournalist, traveling to war-torn countries and winning awards for my intimate and thought provoking photographs, up until the horrific tragedy which had killed my closest friend and work colleague. I had managed to escape with just a shoulder wound and a few minor injuries, but my friend on the other hand hadn't been so lucky. I had walked away from a successful photography career that day, unable to carry on working without my most trusted colleague by my side. Despite it having happened a year ago I know I'll never stop blaming myself for his death, despite what my therapist claims. A sudden tragedy like that, which you happen to witness, doesn't disappear from your memory. Instead it stays with you until the day you die.

I walk over to the shelving unit and pick up my favourite camera, which has been at my side for countless years. I can't remember the last time I had used it. When I had walked away from my successful career after my friend's funeral I had planned to give up photography for good. I couldn't carry on working while knowing that I was responsible for someone's death. But my therapist had made me reconsider my decision to give up what is essentially my life. She asks me at every session, without fail, what photographs I've taken recently, only to look disappointed when I mutter how I haven't taken any. It's not that I don't want to take photographs. I just want to feel that strong itch in my fingers again; something I always used to feel when I had seen the perfect shot in front of me; that familiar itch which had always made me reach for my camera, knowing I had something special right in front of me. I haven't felt anything like it in a whole year and I doubt I ever will.

Still, I guess I should at least try to take some photographs today, just so my therapist can't moan at me yet again.

I wait for it to get light and after pulling on an old pair of faded jeans, lacing up my boots, and pulling the strap of my camera over my head I walk to the nearby park. I don't bother taking my car which is parked outside the front of the apartment block. I always prefer to walk on warm and sunny days.

I can tell from the bright sun that's already high up in the sky that it's going to be a very warm day, but the park is pretty much empty, except for a few dog walkers, as it's still early in the morning. I wander over to the colourful flowerbeds with my camera gently hitting the side of my hip as I walk, and I force myself to take a few pictures, if only so I can tell my therapist that I've finally started using it again. But I only manage to take three shots before I become bored and start to look around for other interesting things to photograph. But there's nothing that stands out to me, or even captures my interest. There's nothing that makes me quickly raise my camera to my eyes.

I sigh deeply as I let the expensive piece of equipment hang back down against my hip, and sit down on a nearby bench where I start to wonder how my life became so dull.

'So, how are things going, Ellis?' my therapist asks me later on that afternoon, while crossing her long legs and placing her folder on her lap.

'Fine,' I mutter while looking around at the familiar and dull white room, with its few framed certificates and paintings. 'I took some pictures today.'

She smiles. 'That's good. . . like I said the other day you're a talented photographer, Ellis.' She writes something down in my folder with her usual black fountain pen. 'Have you given any thought to picking up freelance jobs?'

I make a face as I casually cross my arms across my chest. 'I used to do freelance work. . . but I didn't really like it,' I tell her honestly. 'It's not really something I'm good at it.'

'But it'll be good money,' she reminds me, glancing up at me from behind her stylish glasses. 'And I happen to know someone who will be willing to hire you.'

I look at the young and very pretty therapist who's sitting opposite me, with her long, caramel hair tied up in a lose ponytail and pink lipstick on her full lips, before idly raking a hand through my hair. I think of Oliver and the studio flat we share. It may be cheap but my brother and I still need to pay the bills if we want a roof over our heads. I don't want to think of what he would say if he found out that I didn't accept her suggestion of finding freelance work. That's a lecture I definitely don't want.

So I finally let out a quiet sigh. 'I guess I could give it a try again,' I mutter.