My name, you ask?
It's simple. Annette Watson.
Duh.
I'm a photographer. That's right, I take pictures. I take pictures that seem 'Strange' to everyone but me. Why? I don't even know. I see what they don't. I see what they don't 'cuz they're all blind. They claim I hallucinate. Thing is, what I see isn't a god damn hallucination. Like I said, they're all b-l-i-n-d. What I see? People. Ghosts. Dead people. People who I never even knew. They just appear in my photographs. And my friends and family don't believe they're there. But the truth is. They're there. It's just...They don't see them. And I'll repeat myself yet one more time; They're all blind.
And it all started the day I got my great grandfather's camera, which was on my birthday. Which was also the day my father was assassinated.
That day, my birthday turned out to be a disaster. Or more like a tragedy.
It was one of the best days of my life, I was turning Thirteen, all of my friends were there, talking about the usual, boys, and other random shit. My parents had gotten me my great grandpa's camera. It was my first camera, actually, and I was excited as heck. Usually, I would've thrown the stupid camera at my mother being the brat I was. But I didn't. Why? Because it was my great grandfather's camera, and he was one of the most famous Photographers in Illinois, with that camera he had taken the most wonderful pictures I had ever seen in my entire life.
It was after the call. The call my mother had gotten in the middle of opening my presents was the one that ruined everything. All my mother could do that day was cry and scream once she had seen my dad's dead body. Yeah, I cried too, but not as much as my mom. I cared, that was for sure, but I didn't lay in bed until three or four in the afternoon, crying and soaking my pillow. I know, I sound heartless. But I wasn't, it's just that my mother loved my dad too much.
After my dad's death, my camera stayed in the same box my father had given me before he had left to work on my birthday. It was still sitting there in that boring drawer beside my bed. It wasn't until last year, the day I turned fifteen, that I decided to finally use it. I had never taken a single picture with it, and when I did, I saw someone I recognized. My dad. I showed my mother that picture a million times, but she always shook her head and said, "Honey, that's not your father. That's a picture of a Church." and then she'd ruffle my hair, smile sadly, and walk away.
No one believed me he was there. But he was. And they weren't hallucinations, hell no. I knew that what I was seeing was really there. It really was.
