If it were up to me, the bible would begin: A man steps into a field... I'd forgotten what was in the background when you took the photo of me I wouldn't see until later. When I did, it was just a wall, and my smile was a mouthful of rocks. A little after it was clicked off the T.V. screen's light condensed down a drain. Even when the television had become an aquarium full of black water that last bright dot burned in my eye. On the back of my photo you wrote, This isn't you, and you were right, it no longer was.
Nothing ever absolutely has to happen. The gun doesn't have to be fired. When our hero sits on the edge of his bed contemplating the pistol on his nightstand, you have to believe he might not use it. Then the theatre is sunk in blackness. The audience is a log waiting to be split open. The faint scuff of feet. Objects are picked up, shuffled away. Other things are put down. Based on the hushed sounds you guess: a bed, some walls, a dresser. You feel everything shift. You sense yourself being picked up, set down. A cone of light cracks overhead. The audience's eyes flicker toward you like droplets of water.