Amanda's Nightmare, an original Horror

Montmarie adjusted the lens on the camera and moved in for another shot. This was his best one yet. The lights; the mood, the model; all were perfect. He clutched the camera between his fingers, the black and silver body reflecting his face and the face of the lights above him: the red face and the yellow face and that awful purple face - all bloated and bleeding color. He moved in quickly, pointing to the lighting tech to move that one light further away, move the bleeding light to in front of the model... yes, yes, perfect. Now she looked like death warmed over.

Amanda sat on the pillows, warm slippery satin beneath her rump and wished for a cool drink. The damned photographer was taking so long and the heat of the lights was horrid. Montie was the best of the best, but even he could bring a model to tears. First one angle, then another; move here, stretch there. Don't frown dear, you'll wrinkle. Don't smile, you'll ruin the shot. Don't sweat. For god's sake don't sweat! All the time the lights were burning like miniature suns into her eyes, into the retinas and her mind. Her bleary, sleep deprived mind that refused to concentrate on the job at hand. Okay, okay, take a breath, take a deep breath. Okay, calm, calm.

Montmarie took the photos, his camera clicking and clicking like a chirring insect. Then he paused, moved a light here, another there; wait, why did he move that purple light? Oh, now it's in my eyes. Amanda squinted into the purple light, her eyes bleeding with the swollen bulb, her face sanguine and rotten in corpse-like putrescence. She blinked tears like webs streaking her eyes, dripping like syrup from eyelashes bogged down with mascara. The nacreous grey of the tears blurring her vision; she was startled when a hand touched her shoulder, moved her left, then right. Then back, back, laying her down on the squishy wet pillows. So much wet; so much moisture. It was like she was swimming in sweat. Bathing in blood. She hated those lights. So bright; too bright. She wanted some shade. Wanted some water.

He pushed her back to lie against the red satin pillows, their sheen catching just right the lights and the camera flash. The model in her thinness was like a lanky skeleton, pale complexion, pale skin like a corpse. She was perfect. So perfect in fact. It was amazing. Totally amazing. He pushed her back just a bit more, moving her face just so, to catch the lights and the gleam in her eyes, suddenly so white and silvery, was like spider webs and his breath caught as he signaled for more film.

Amanda could hear his voice, like a distant wash of waves, murmuring in the background. What was he talking about? Oh, more film. More film; when would it end. When? He'd been snapping for hours; days it seemed and she was tired; hungry; thirsty. When could she simply lie back and sleep. Oh what the hell; she was lying on these pillows, maybe a nap?

Montmarie snapped his fingers under Amanda's nose, no sleeping! Pay attention! Now turn those lights, here, here; now there. Yes, perfect; perfect.

The clicking of the camera continued, the wash of lights, the susurration of voices and Amanda let it wash over her, carrying her to other places; to dreams of better places, better things. Her parents back home in their nice house that her money bought for them last year. Her sister, who married and was having her first baby - even if her husband was such an ass; her boyfriend who was off on a location shoot in Africa. He too was an ass sometimes, preferring his big game photography to her, but she made plenty of money so it didn't matter. She could buy him too. Montmarie's voice washed over her and she settled into the satin pillows, feeling their wetness beneath her and wishing they didn't squish so. How could she sweat so much and not hear it from the photographer.

He frowned as the last roll clicked off the camera, waving for yet another cartridge before he sighed. No, no. This isn't right. More light; brighter maybe. She is too pale now; too bloated looking. Change that purple light for white. Yes, yes, that's better.

Amanda watched as he continued to take photographs, the click of the camera telling the tale of his obsession and her compliance. Yes, he was the best photographer in the business and she was the best model. And Hell was full of dead souls reliving the last moments of their lives; her's as she let this madman photograph her corpse; his as he lived out his mad dream in the last minutes before the electric chair took him.