The following story is fictional and inspired by the image above:
My mind is all over the place as I sort through the worn box from my past. I just unearthed it from my office closet where it hadn’t seen the light of day in nearly twenty-five years. It’s filled with letters and trinkets from my college days. When I come across the photo, I stop short. The box slides from my lap and falls to the floor but I make no effort to stop it. The photo has my complete attention.
I remember the day I took it. It was the weekend before graduation and the six of us were inseparable back then. We had just finished the last of our exams and decided to go for a hike. I fight the lump in my throat as my memory of that day surfaces. You’d think after so many years, the sting would have lessened but it hasn’t.
As I gaze at the fading image, I can’t help but think of the person I was when I took the picture and how much my life would change in the hours that followed. Little did I know it would be the last time we would all be together. It was the last picture of David ever taken. A few hours after this captured moment, his life would be cut short by a stray bullet from the rifle of a drunken hunter.
I recall my hands becoming sticky with blood as I applied pressure to the gaping hole in his chest. There was so much of it, the smell overwhelmed me and to this day, the sight of blood makes me faint. We tried to get help, but help came too late.
My hands begin to tremble and the picture shakes. The image blurs as my tears fall once again for my fallen best friend. I reach for the box but before I return the picture, I think better of it.
I set the newly framed photo on the mantle of my fireplace and trace my finger over my absent friend; gone but never forgotten.
End Transmission.