'The Photograph'

• Georgia Chaffey
• Short Story
• 2010

“I’ve seen that face before.” I stared blankly at the photograph, they’re grinning faces; eyes dancing happily staring into mine almost mockingly. I was trying to remember where I had seen that face before, then suddenly I realised “That’s the man who killed my fiancé!” Overwhelmed with emotions, I hurled the photo frame across the mildewed hallway where it shattered against the wall and lay on the dusty floorboards in a million tiny, glistening pieces.
Six months prior to this day, my fiancé, Jenna, and I had been dining in a fancy restaurant, the warm glow of the candles danced happily on her beautiful face, and in that moment, there was nothing better than to ask for her hand. When she said ‘yes’, I was the happiest man alive, we spent almost every night talking about our future together and were busily planning our big day, I belonged to her and she belonged to me.
That was until around 4 months ago, when Jenna went missing, at first I thought she had just worked overtime and forgot to call, but as the clock chimed 10pm I knew something was wrong, Jenna would’ve called before now. After the second night without Jenna, I decided to call the Police.
Days, Weeks and Months flew by, I spent the majority of my time lying on our bed, flicking through our photo albums and reminiscing. Sometimes through the night, I was convinced I could hear her softly breathing beside me, but as I leant over, I was met with the aching, bitter truth; Jenna wasn’t coming back.
One Tuesday afternoon, I was sitting on the bed; gazing into space, when the phone rang. I hadn’t answered the phone in months and had ostracised myself, not only from my family but also from Jenna’s family and our friends. I don’t even know what made me answer that phone.
For the first time in months, I picked up the phone and spoke “Hello” my voice was hoarse from lack of use. “Campbell Ashwell?” questioned a rough, deep male voice which I vaguely recognised “yes” I replied. “This is Sergeant Jarman; we have some information about a missing person, uh” over the phone line, I could hear papers being shuffled “a Miss Jenna Kennan? And that you need to come to the Police Station for further information”

Like a deer in the spotlight, I stood there, unable to speak, utterly dumbfounded. “Mr Ashwell? Are you still there? We would like to see you today if that suits?” stuttering to find the right words I mumbled aimlessly into the phone “I’ll be there as soon as I can” as I hung up I collapsed back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, the conversation running through my mind, I didn’t want to hear what I knew I was going to hear, but I wanted closure, I wanted to know what had happened to my beautiful Jenna.
I walked dazedly to our car, the harsh ray of the sun stung like a thousand bees, sunshine wasn’t something I’d seen much of over the last few months, the car which had once been a very shiny, very new BMW, was now covered in spider webs. I opened the door and in an instant, I could smell it; her scent of strawberries filled my senses like a sweet drug. I could feel her sitting beside me, I sat there for several minutes, reminiscing all the times I’d backed out this driveway with her beside me, and all the places we went together, how she would always give me the wrong directions, we’d be lost in a town full of strangers, but as long as we had each other we’d belong.
I reversed out of the driveway, and as I was driving away I looked in the rear view and saw the house I used to call a home, a run-down two story house of memories. The front lawn swallowing the brick path leading up to the weather-worn front door which had once been painted blue was now a shade of grey. The windows which were once sparkling clean were shaded over by a thick layer of spider webs; this had been our dream home. We were going to raise our children in this house. The freshly painted white trellis that clung to the side of the house would grow perfumed roses the colour of Jenna’s favourite blood red dress, the spacious, rarely-used dining room would be crowded every Christmas with our friends and family laughing and joking over a roast meal. In the holidays, the Grandchildren would run and play out on the freshly mown lawn and we would teach them to swim in the pool out the back.
Going to the Police station was no help for me; I was told what I already knew. My fiancée was dead and never coming back. Murdered, the officers told me. They showed me the face of the killer; they didn’t know the name of the mongrel that’d hurt my Jenna and as a result had caused me more pain than a million firing squads would have. I sat there, stunned, I knew the news was coming, I knew it was bad, but still I was in shock.
The officers tried to comfort me, I shrugged them off and half-walked, half-ran out of the police station. I sat in my car, strawberry perfume filling up my nostrils, I could’ve stayed there all day if I wanted to, but I wasn’t going to let some mongrel ruin my life more than he’d already done.
I pulled up in my unswept driveway which had been taken over by leaves in the previous fall, took one last sniff of the strawberry scent and got out of the car, walking up my front path past the forgotten rows of hedges-I was numb. I opened my door and for the first time in months turned on the lights.
As I stood in the empty, dust-ridden hallway, I gazed at all the photos on the walls, Jenna at her formal looking stunning in a lemon shaded gown; Jenna and me on a theme park rollercoaster; Jenna and me at the beach building a sandcastle; Jenna and me at our engagement party my arm around her as we both smiled like a Cheshire cat; our families together, a jovial bunch. Family-that’s who I needed right now I had alienated myself from my family and I missed them. I picked up my phone and dialled my parents place. “Hello” answered my mother; I sobbed into the phone, unable to say anything. I looked up and saw a picture of Jenna and her best friend Harley, a picture that was taken at our engagement party.
“I’ve seen that face before.” I stared blankly at the photograph, they’re grinning faces; eyes dancing happily staring and staring into mine almost mockingly. I was trying to remember where I had seen that face before, then suddenly I realised “That’s the man who killed my fiancé!” Overwhelmed with emotions, I hurled the photo frame across the mildewed hallway where it shattered against the wall and lay on the dusty floorboards in a million tiny, glistening pieces.