Pinhole: Virginia Park

She stood watching. Still; her breath – the sole disclosure that she was more than stone and clothes, sculpture and scarves. It was five AM, and the birds were curious, not stupid.
She used to jog. Not in this park; but over the bridge and along the roads in a circular square. She had boundaries then; a schedule. But since the what word? accident, she jogged no more.
She was waiting. Her and the camera. A pinhole and the paper. She kept everything now. Created as much as she could. When so much had been taken away, it was the way she rebuilt herself.
Today was planned. She moved twice, made a triangle of revengers; triplets captured in focus. She knew them all. The bullied, bruised and confused. The manipulated, pushed down and walked upon. The violated, used and left to rot.
The camera caught them all, and the space between.
She left, thankful for the snow. It covered tracks.

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