Photograph. October 25, 12:11 A.M. Taylor, bound:
The shutter speed is wrong. Every edge is blurred slightly, giving the picture—a young woman sitting, bound, on the edge of a bed—a feathered, ephemeral quality. It is like the scene is moving, caught in transition.
The bedroom is lit in candlelight—a warm yellow, burning out of frame, somewhere to the woman’s left. Her clothing is disheveled; the shoulder of her hoodie has slipped down, exposing pale skin at her neck, between strands of wild black hair. Her hands and forearms are extended out in front of her body, bound together with loops of gray duct tape. There is tape across her mouth, too, stretching from ear to ear.
The woman’s eyes are wide, lashes and brow raised in fright. She is looking right back at the camera. Her entire world is focused on that one point in space and time—laser sharp and terrified. Her right cheek is lost in shadow; her left is glistening with tears.