It was particularly black outside while Stephen walked home. The sky was overcast, concealing its moon and stars underneath a vast blanket of thick clouds. The buildings of his neighborhood were darker than usual. The shadows caused the crawling, jagged cracks adorning the buildings' grainy brick walls to blend into the infrastructure, leaving behind a pastel facade of smooth grays and blacks. Stephen remembered these buildings as aesthetically flawed, ugly, and old, but tonight he was strangely entranced by them. He fancied himself as part of a painting, a solitary figure on a canvas covered with masterful, melancholy strokes; the artist's forsaken soul walking across the still wake of desertion. When he halted in front of the entrance to his apartment building, his thoughts and feelings solidified with a sudden and crippling realization: He felt more alone now than he had ever felt in his entire life. * * * * * * * Memory is an interesting phenomenon, one which is perpetually linked to humanity. It defines who we are, bearing us the fortunes of both permanence and change. Yet we often despise it, and when we make it a habit to feel this way it is inevitable that we begin to ignore it. Because we ignore our memories, we ignore ourselves. Because we ignore ourselves, we eliminate any chance of progress or growth. The tragedy of this lies in the fact that it is we, who quite willfully and through a senseless feeling of self-pity, construct these shackles and clasp them upon our own wrists. We do so with the expectation that all of the feelings associated with these unreconciled memories will not remain with us – but they do, no matter how deep we attempt to bury them. Stephen glared at Libby with overwhelming hatred. He found it increasingly difficult to control his anger. They had been in a relationship for roughly two years, but lately he was beginning to have doubts as to whether the relationship would work out. “If you want to ask him something, then ask him yourself,” said Stephen through his teeth, “Don't tell me to do something that you can do perfectly well on your own.” “God,” Libby replied, disgust lining her features, “Can't you even do this for me? Just ask him to take a picture of us!” She motioned to a man leaning against the wall next to the men's restroom looking lazily about. He seemed the only man in the vicinity who was not preoccupied with something, or rushing to the next gate. Stephen fell silent. The habit Libby had of trying to guilt him into doing things for her infuriated him, and here he was confronted with her audacity once again. However, instead of humoring her as he had always done in the past, this time he did not comply. Sending her a final, venomous glance, he slowly turned and walked back to his seat. The airport departure wing was humming with noise. Countless numbers of nondescript people walked past the couple, passing like anonymous extras on a movie screen between the two. Stephen looked down the airport wing, his burning gaze absorbed within the crowd beneath the incessant murmur of random conversations, the tinkling laughter of women, and the shrill cries of children – he simply could not stand the sight of her, and focusing his attention on anything other than her seemed the only option available that could help this wave of anger subside. After a lingering moment, Libby moved from her spot and walked to the man leaning against the wall. They shared a short exchange, then she led him back to the area in which Stephen was sitting. She handed a bulky digital camera to the man and sat down quite naturally in the seat next to Stephen. “Smile,” she instructed. Stephen straightened up and, without looking at her, stared into the camera with a doctored smile on his face. The man dropped his bag to the floor beside him, took the picture, and handed the camera back to Libby. “There ya go,” he said with a friendly smile, “Have a good day.” With a parting wave directed towards both of them, he picked up his bag and turned to go. Libby inspected the picture on the camera's digital display screen, turned off the power, and held it out in front of Stephen, who silently held it in his lap rather than placing it back inside the leather case hanging from his neck. His fingers pressed against the hard plastic shell, his palms quivered against its surface, and still he could not look at her. “Why don't you want to take pictures with me?” she asked impatiently. The words tumbled angrily from her lips. Stephen remained silent, and his lack of response further upset her. “Look at me, Stephen! What's wrong with yo –” The familiar tone of disgust crept into her voice as she spoke, but she could not finish the question. Stephen's response cut her short. His sudden movement startled her. She watched in horror as he exploded from his seat and reared up to face her like a beast about to strike. Gripping the camera tightly in his white-knuckled hands, he hurled it at the floor below him. The camera crashed violently against the floor and shattered upon impact. Shards of the camera flew in all directions, creating a cacophony of noise that carried over the atmosphere. Among those pieces was the heavy lens of the camera, which had flown across the hallway and struck one of the departure screens hanging from the ceiling. A large crack was left in its wake. Stephen stared at her, a wild fury in his eyes. Now it was she who could not look at him. She stared in shock at the point of impact and the remains of her camera scattered across the floor. Silence fell around the couple as onlookers, equally shocked, stared at Stephen. The silence seemed to last a long while as Stephen's breathing gradually slowed. Sliding his gaze through the area of onlookers, he followed their hushed tones and their pointed fingers to fall on the ruptured display. “Goddammit,” Stephen muttered, looking at the scene he had caused. The rapid succession of rubber soles squeaking against polished tile heralded the arrival of airport security... | 
