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“What’s that thing behind you in that picture?”
This sentence was the bane of my existence.
For as long as I can remember, and since the day of my birth, and in every picture, without exception, people had been seeing something behind me, something that I couldn’t see myself.
Needless to say, having my picture taken was never my favorite thing.
I grew up lonelier that I could have been. Our extended family was so clearly uncomfortable around me; and I can’t count the number of friends that just slowly disappeared from my life after looking at one of them. I’ve learned to hate that vulnerable, uneasy expression that came with their guts screaming at them that Something Was Wrong, that meant that in the months to come they would drift away from me as if by coincidence. And every time I had to deal with official documentation requiring a portrait of me, well - those were always fun, but we’ve seen better conversation starters.
It was never the same thing, being, either. I mean - one person would always see the same one, in every picture, but everyone saw something different. And they couldn’t describe it, only jumble a puzzle of impressions of it.
And I could never see what they saw.
I think my parents were in denial about that. They kept saying they didn’t see anything, like me, but they flinched every time the subject was brought up. There weren’t a lot of childhood photographs on our walls.
What I’ve never told anyone - because I wanted so bad to be in denial, too - was that, while I never saw anything, in those pictures or out of it, I could hear breathing, behind me, every time one was taken of me. Deep, calm, like the sound of the waves receding, and so loud. Always straight behind me, no matter what could be there, but never getting closer, deep, calm, loud.
Like the waves receding.
I dreamed I was spending the day at the beach.
And I can still hear the breathing. Deep, calm, loud. Right under my bed.