Pictures In the Park

The building in which I live is not my home. I should feel safe at home; I should be happy in my home. The only evidence that someone could possibly be living inside of this dump is the bin bags that build up outside. Occasionally I will place a filled bag outside the door. I decided that if I piled them outside then no one would think to come looking for me and assume it is an uninhabitable dump. When the pile gets too high, I’ll take one away and go put it in the large bin that is used for the park outside. The park is the only reason I put up with this kind of living.

Underneath the shade of an old oak tree lies my shack, a small wooden house that everyone knows is empty. At least they believe it’s empty but as per usual, the general people don’t tend to look below the surface. I used to own an apartment, shared a bed with Lauren and a life with the woman I loved, love. Waking up in the morning to the smell of bacon and eggs, finding Lauren in nothing but one of my baggy tees with her back to me slaving over the hob. I would wrap my hands around her slim waist, my face would rest on her long blonde hair, her head would curl back into my shoulder. I can remember the taste of her fresh lips, then the pull of her hand leading me back into the bedroom. It happened every day, the breakfast, and then sex afterwards. She was so passionate and exciting! Until she left. I awoke, no breakfast, no sex, no Lauren. She had left. The only sign of her existence in my life was a small note left on her pillow.

I’m moving on, it was nice.

Now I live inside of this shack, tormented by the memory of her, every piece of furniture she had picked out. It was as much her house as it was mine, she infested her presence inside my nest like a worm inside an apple. It was tainted and so I had to escape it. She must have had someone else to go to though, the nest became too sour and so she wriggled her way into a new apple somewhere. Perhaps his name is Rodger, an accountant. He has worked for Marshall Incorporated for nine years now, won employee of the month last year; He got a bonus which he will spend on buying Lauren that red and black bralette that she wanted from Victoria’s Secret. He would come home after a long day at work and she would be laid across the sofa in her new underwear. She would thrust herself at him and his large hands will embrace her gentle skin. But he will be tired from work, head to the bedroom and fall asleep before anything further. I hope.

A reflection off a bike in the park blinds me in the eye and I return to my shack. Spending all day just watching out of the hole in the wall I call a window. Waiting to see him. My new love. I call him Billy, I don’t actually know his name but I love him dearly, you would understand if you saw him. The most beautiful little boy in the world. I realised that I don’t need Lauren or another woman in my life. This little boy was all I needed. He is sweet and kind and loyal, he will never leave me, he will never argue back and he will stay cute forever. I imagine.

The path through the park is a light-coloured gravel path, a few large stones are scattered along the walkway but they are a minority, tree’s line the path and beyond that is open grass, often occupied with family picnics or dogs playing with their owners. Walking along the path under the canopy of leaves above, shielding him from the bright sunlight on this beautiful day. I can see Billy walking past. My window is situated perfectly so that I have a clear view over the park. My camera needs the clear view. I made the camera myself, a wide lens camera with a motion detector, tracking passers-by and photographing them. I don’t like to watch the camera go off in its usual five minute intervals, I feel odd taking photos of people. I tend to walk through the park during the day as much as I can, clear my head, giving me something to do. Then once I have returned I can check the basket for all the polaroid images. Shuffle through them and select my favourites, which then go into one of my scrap books. Each page a new day. As for the bad photographs, often gone blurry, I just throw them away. I end up throwing a lot of the photographs away, as I’m only interested in the photographs of one person. Billy always comes to the park. Everyday.

Like I said, Billy isn’t his actual name, Billy is the name I have given him as I doesn’t know his real name. He is a small boy, sweet face. Much smaller than I was at his age. He often sits in the park on a small blanket with his mother. Occasionally, Billy’s Mother makes it into the photographs, but he just looks so sweet and cute that I can’t bring myself to throw the pictures of the two of them away, so I just scratch out her face from the image. Although, if I’m feeling creative, I sometimes stick an image of my face on top of her now scratched out face. It reminds me that I should be the one sitting there on the blanket with him. Not her. I don’t have a lot of room to keep the scrap books and so I like to keep the most recent book next to my sleeping area. It’s not really a bed, more of a blanket on the floor. This way I can wake up in the morning and be greeted by his little face.

When I was with Lauren we often spoke about having children of our own and I loved the idea dearly. A home where we were all together and safe, smaller versions of us running around making a mess for us to moan about, and bond over. Once she left me, I knew I would never have any children. Then I saw Billy. I don’t mind that she left me anymore, I just want to know why she took my son with her.