Page 8 of Shadowed With Fear

A hooded man cradled my head in his large hands. Thumb sweeping softly through the wetness on my face.

“Look at me.”

His voice echoed through my ears like we had left the park and found ourselves in a cave.

“Let me see those eyes, beautiful,” his voice was stern. It rumbled through his chest like it came from a place deep within his soul.

I opened them slowly, expecting to see kindness shining within his own, but I was wrong.

Beneath the hood, a white mask glowed in the darkness. Bottomless, soulless eyes, round, painted so black they appeared vacant. The edges blurring like ink that hadn’t dried, smeared across a blank page.

“Who—”

“Shh.” He cut me off. My lids began to grow heavy with the pace of my breathing.

“I’ve got you.”

Before the darkness closed in, I felt the gentle sweeping of lips across my brow, warm breath ghosting my skin, and a whispered promise.

“You’re mine now.”

Dahlia

“Come one, come all. Welcome to Art 204, or in laymen’s terms, Photographic Foundations.”

Around the lecture hall students rustled papers, unzipped bags, typed away at keyboards, but me? I just smiled. My fingers tapped an unknown rhythm on the wooden desk, my knee bounced erratically, making my Converse squeak on the newly polished floor at the front of the hall. This is it. My first step toward a career I love. Nothing could ruin this now.

“I am Professor Logan. The young man over here,” he gestures over her shoulder with his thumb, “is Ethan Cochrane.

“He is our class assistant and will be here throughout the semester for additional support and peer guidance. If you have any questions regarding brainstorming or tutor-type things, direct them to him, otherwise, my email is also open and so are my office hours.” The older man gives us all a smile, and I can feel my own growing with each nerve wrecking second.

I remember Grayson talking about this class. He would wax poetic for hours on end of how much a of genius Professor Logan is. I had spent the better part of my morning during class breaks reading article upon article written about this man’s artistic consulting in major film studios. He is the guy to go to when you have a shot you need to make, but don’t know where to begin. And I have the undoubted privilege to be his pupil.

This is so fucking cool.

As Professor Logan begins the usual beginning of the semester bullshit, I hang onto every word. I know this class could be a make or break for my future. A letter of recommendation from this man could have me set for life in any capacity I wish in film. Although the goal is in the academic side of things, maybe even a professor one day, his name alone could open so many doors.

“For the duration of the semester, this course will be diving into the basic fundamentals of photography and film foundations. All the things you need to know about composition, lighting, staging, optics manipulation, and focus for a beginner.”

He leans over a podium at the front of the hall, pressing a button that has a screen dropping from the high ceiling.

“As such, you will be fulfilling a major requirement as part of the university, and for some of you, even for your program. You will be tested on your knowledge and comprehension of the course topics by developing a portfolio.”

The professor’s wide grin and outstretched palm directs our focus to the screen behind him.

I shift in my seat, eyes wide, smile still planted firmly on my face. My mind races with possibilities for themes, topics, models, everything.

“Mr. Cochrane here has been kind enough to allow me to use his very own portfolio as a demonstration. Ethan completed this assignment the same as every one of you; his freshman year, as part of a university requirement, he had enrolled in this course. However, he was shocked to discover how much he would love the work we did. By the end of the semester, he had changed his major from Pre-Law to a dual degree in Business Management and Photography.

“Ethan, if you don’t mind, how about you take over from here, and tell everyone a little bit about each of the pieces you included in your project.” As the professor stepped aside, the guy stepped into the lecture hall’s lights.

He seemed like just your average dude. Sandy brown hair, average height, maybe a little bit stockier than most, probably a football player or hockey or something like that.

“Thank you, sir.”

Even his voice was just sort of normal. Ethan Cochrane could easily be a guy that you would never notice as he passed you by on the street. No tattoos, no piercings, no strange scars, accent. He doesn’t even have a unique sense of style. The guy is wearing a plain gray t-shirt and jeans, just like the three other guys sitting in the same row as me. He really doesn’t strike me as the artsy type, which I guess makes sense since this hadn’t been his intended path. But what makes him so special?

“Hello, everyone. My name is Ethan, and I’ll be a part of this class this semester. Just because I’m an assistant doesn’t give me any sort of rank over you all. Please don’t call me sir or anything. You’ll make me feel old,” he murmurs the last sentence giving Professor Logan a side eye. The older man just shakes his head suppressing a smile while a few in the class snort or chuckle to themselves.