Hanging out on the street with a face full of tears, she held the package. She was standing in the rain, on a stormy Monday, in a world full pain. She was a guardian, but there was nothing she could protect, nobody she could care for. She was alone with her tears, and as she opened the package, she overcame the fears, the memories, and those glimpses of a hateful past. She had nothing to lose, so she took out the camera and began to walk along the buildings, took glimpses of lives, to see what was left.
The first one was an innocent child, hiding in the dark. She saw the lonely eyes and as she stepped closer, she could not take her eyes of the broken body. There were scars all over the child, bruises and blood and all that little boy could say, was “Please, not again...” She shot the picture, and as she did, she felt the pain. She understood what was happening to the boy, every day all this pain. His dad was beating him, because he was a child, His friends were chasing him, because he was the child of a poor family, the loser, the punching ball for everyone. With the picture in the camera, the boy began to become what I a child should be. He was smiling, maybe for the first time. But she felt still the pain and as he ran away, he was free and she had lost another life.
But the journey wasn’t over. She struggled to go on. Why all this pain? There was a letter, which she hadn’t cared for to read. She sat down on a bench at a bus top, shielded from the rain. Dear my guardian angel. As I call for you, it’s not for me, it’s for the others. I have no pleasure to live in this world anymore. But I want you to take my camera and do my work. Walk along the street, into the ghettos and see what I saw day for day. Than tell me, where is God and what is an Angel, if there is no hope, only pain? I DON’T BELIEVE IN ANYTHING ANYMORE!
That was all. If she still had some tears, she wept now, from the bottom of her heart. What life must that be? Beaten as a child with no hope, no sunshine, only darkness and fear.
The street was lonely, only the clouds, which spat rain. Angels were no more guardians; they were lost, as humans. There was no chance, to help, when madness ruled the world. But this last will she had to accept it.
So she stood up and walked on. Later she found a dog, shot, blood mixed with rain. His eyes were lonely. She sat at his side, stroke his wet fur, tried to comfort him. He seemed to find peace, if there was such a state for a dog. As his last moment came, she took a shot. It was his eyes, which were digging at her heart. Again there was pain, like she had seen with the boy. But this time, there was also hate.
And now she felt hate. She was running now. At the corner, there was standing an old man. He was calling her: “Lady, just a penny, for an old guy like me.” She stopped, she took the camera out, shot him, felt the spit in her face, like he had felt, craved for alcohol, like he was doing now and understood, you could try to drown in yourself, if you were alone and all were hating you.
She gave him what she had. And she was glad, because he lived, he smiled. Even as she knew, he would just get more whiskey and beer to drown what was left and some days later he would begging again.
Still the anger was rising in her. She now just ran and shot, picture for picture. A girl, she was beaten and abused? Why, nobody cared, is no question, just a fact. An old woman, she just was ill, but nobody was helping her to get better. A black guy with a shotgun and a white boy with a pistol, just some shooting, nothing new, just realism, you know!
Always just pain, just hate! People, we hate, we are the haters, not the believers.
As she was taking a break, catching some breath, she took a glimpse of a TV in a television and video shop. There was again only pain, only realism. Blood was thicker than water, but it seemed, the world was flowing in blood not on water.
The last shot was the one of herself. She was standing on a hill, looking down on the big city, on the world of sorrow. And as she took the shot, she was dying, because of all our pain and sorrow.
On this hill, the Hill of the Fallen Angel, there is still the package. Tonight is another night, another chance to take some shots. But who likes to see always the same again and again?