Soul Stealer

Thousands of photographed faces cover the walls of the room, a thumbtack stabbing through every forehead of every person who discovered this place before she did. She glances over each one (making up stories to animate their lives) until her eyes find the large eye of a camera staring back at her.

The silhouetted figure of a man materializes as she spins frantically around the room, looking for a way out. With mushroom cloud eyes he snaps her picture; but as the flash splashes her body, she wakes up in her bed, blankets on the floor, red satin bedsheet popped from every corner of the mattress, as if she’s lying in a pool of her own blood.

I have no idea how to respond to this. What do I say to a person that delivers such an immaculate answer to my ordinary question— “So, what kind of problems are you having?”

I spit out a “Wow, I can’t even begin to imagine . . .” as she lies on the MRI table whispering with certainty that this man she encountered is a soul stealer. I give her a warm blanket, clamp the MRI coil over her head, and ease her frightened body into the dimly lit tunnel.

”Close your eyes.”
“Try not to worry.”
“This won’t hurt a bit.”

But as I close the door to the room, my careless lips blurt out “I’m just gonna take your picture.”