Creeper

Enjoy this short story by Mace Styx.

The photographs, under a title that describes the image’s contents in the crudest possible terms, were of Kristen. In the bedroom, in our living room, getting into and out of the shower. Even standing before the cooker top wearing just an oversized pullover and a red thong as she prepared pasta. I felt sick as the implications began to sink in. Not only were these invasive and highly intimate photographs that had somehow made their way onto a public platform. They were photographs that she clearly believed that I had taken and disseminated.

I thought back to the night that the red thong picture was taken. It was a few days after we had moved in, the night we had eaten pasta, sitting face to face cross legged on the bare floorboards of the living room before the carpets and the new sofa had arrived. We had lit candles, eaten our food while planning in our minds and discussing where we’d put the rest of our belongings once we had unpacked. We had laughed and teased each other right there on the floor. At no point during the evening had I taken a photograph. Neither had she and neither had anyone else. We had been alone.