The Red

Mara was accepting the most prestigious award of her career for the worst thing she had ever done. The World Press Photo of the Year, given annually, since 1955, to works of journalistic importance. Bold. Necessary. Fearless. The buzzwords that had been associated with the photo since it was first published months ago could be heard echoing in the auditorium. She tried to ignore them, knowing the pain they caused her when she thought about what they meant. The harsh spotlights made it difficult for her to adequately fake delight as she crossed the stage, dwarfed by a large image projected onto the back wall. An image she very much tried to ignore.

The same image that haunted her.

It was one of a father carrying a small child in his arms. The photo had no color aside from the man’s blue eyes and bloodstained shirt. Perfectly centered on a background of rubble and smoke. He had a look of desperation in his face. The child, whose gender was indistinguishable, looked both dead and alive at the same time.

They called it courage when they handed her the award, which told her they had no idea what they were really celebrating. She accepted, with a fake smile, and retreated to her seat, and ultimately, her hotel room at newly the renovated Inter-Continental Amstel Amsterdam. There, she placed the ill-gotten award on the dresser, next to the framed copy of TIME, sat on the edge of the bed facing it, put her head in her hands, and wept.

The Amstel was the exclusive hotel in the city. Known as the “Grande Dame” of Amsterdam, it had recently undergone a renovation of 70 million guilders, or about 40 million U.S. dollars. A significant amount in 1992 for a hotel with less than 80 rooms. It had been frequented by the likes of Steven Spielberg, Madonna, The Rolling Stones, and Nelson Mandela.

It might not have been as bad, she thought, had the ceremony taken place in some meeting hall, or if they had put her up in some cheap motel. But the extravagance of the event fed her guilt. “All for me. For me and that stupid photo”, she repeated to herself.

She hadn’t taken a picture since. When she returned from Azerbaijan, she spent her days archiving, editing, pitching some previous freelance work, and trying to forget. She tried taking photos for an ongoing project she was calling Rush Hour; a series of pictures of unbeknownst commuters all over New York. But when she looked through the viewfinder, she couldn’t bring herself to press the shutter down fully.

Tonight, the bright lights, accolades, and chardonnay made the forgetting impossible. No matter how much she didn’t want to, she couldn’t stop looking at the magazine with her photo on the cover. When she looked at the red stain, she could taste the dust and concrete from the explosions she inhaled. Any time she saw that deep shade of red, she could taste the same taste that lingered in her lungs for weeks afterwards.

It was all she could focus on.

The Red.

The threat of losing her job was real. Who would employ a photographer that can’t take pictures? She couldn't go back to being an EMT. She had passed on a job covering the Rangers. Towering, aggressive men violently chasing each other with sticks. About 30 sharp objects on the playing surface. Although, in her heyday, she still would have turned down the job, just for different reasons. She liked to remain neutral in her work. Working for one team, or side, she thought, failed to tell the whole story, the whole truth.

That’s why she wouldn’t cover American wars. A policy which presented its own set of dangers. It’s what brought her to Azerbaijan. It brought her to some of the most dangerous places in the world at the time. Angola, Rwanda, Somalia, Sudan, Liberia, Sierra Leone, the Gaza Strip, Israel, Soviet Central Asia and the former Yugoslavia. She did her best work in unconventional, less structured conflicts, that allowed her to cross enemy lines, and evade censorship and propaganda. She had been arrested, deported, shot at, held at gunpoint, and had shrapnel removed from her backside by a back alley doctor.

Not much of it fazed her. Her near death experiences gave her the confidence of a seasoned war journalist. They were all alike, she thought. The same show, with new actors. She was there to observe. To document. The omniscient narrator that can see all but have no control over the outcome. It was easier this way. She thought.

Mara always knew that she had a responsibility as a photographer. Her belief was that anyone can take pictures, but a photographer has a duty to show the world what it isn’t able to see on its own. Otherwise, they are just another tourist or schmuck with a camera. So she became intrigued with the side of war less publicized. To truly show the war from all sides, she felt she needed to observe the citizens, the innocent people trying to live their day-to-day lives as their communities were despoiled around them.

Someone needed to tell those stories, she thought.

A knock came at the door. At first, she was going to ignore it. She didn’t want whoever it was to see that she had been crying. And she wasn’t expecting anyone. Not at this hour. But her curiosity got the best of her.

“Who is it?” She asked.

“Theo.” It was her writer friend. They had an undefined relationship. One that may be deemed ‘complicated’ by outsiders, although they found their arrangement quite comfortable. She greeted him and they both took a seat on the edge of the bed.

“I thought you didn't make it.”

“I didn’t. My flight got delayed. I just got in. Sorry I missed your big award speech.” He handed her the champagne glasses he was holding, and opened the bottle he brought in under his arm, and filled the glasses. “A toast.” He raised his drink. She followed. “To Mara, whose talent and beauty far exceed her fear and common sense.” He noticed she had been crying and tried to cheer her up. She laughed and gave him an affectionate shove. “Seriously, I’m really proud of you. Is this it?” He stood and picked up the award, a heavy base of dark wood, with a large ribbon of gold attached to the top. He returned it, sat back down, and sipped his champagne. "It's heavy."

"You have no idea."

"What do you mean?"

"I never should have taken that photo. I'm a fraud. If they knew. If they really knew. They wouldn't reward me. They'd lock me up."

"What are you talking about? Don't be silly. You didn't fight. You didn't kill anyone. You were just snapping the bang-bang, like you always say."

"I could have saved him, Theo."

"Who?"

"The boy in the photo. I could have saved him."

"You don't know that."

"I do. I know it in my heart." Her face went blank. She had never told the story she was about to tell before. Her heart raced as she searched for what to say next. Theo saw this and didn't try to argue, just waited for the words.

"Albanian forces were moving in on the city. No warning. The streets were quiet until a rocket was fired into the apartment building across from the hotel were most of the press were staying. I was the first on scene. It's not like I needed to go anywhere, I was already in the lobby. I grabbed my camera and headed outside and took cover behind a dumpster." She looked to be in a trance. As if she was playing the whole scene out in her head again. "There was smoke everywhere. I just started shooting whatever I could, hoping something would emerge. When the smoke cleared, I saw a man, placing a child on the ground. Injured but alive, covered in blood. I could tell he was bleeding out. I could see the wound. Blood was coming out so fast. I just kept shooting. His father did nothing but panic and shake the kid. Then he saw me. He yelled. Screamed. Waved his bloodstained hands for me to help. I just watched. In my mind I wasn't able to help. I was stuck behind the lens... My whole career I've been told to separate yourself from the subject. Don't get involved. Observe. The boy's body went limp several minutes later. His father's expression changed from desperate to angry. He picked the boy up and started running towards me, yelling the first English words I heard him say, 'See this? You did this. YOU did this..' ... And I just kept taking pictures. I took that picture. Before he got close to me, a soldier pulled me back inside the hotel."

Theo knew there was a good chance Mara could have saved the boy. She was a paramedic after all, and had extensive first aid training from her time as a war-journalist. He also knew that it was a war, and people die in wars. None of that mattered now.

"I'm so sorry, Mara." He got up, placed the framed magazine and award in the trash bin, sat back down and held Mara until they both fell asleep.