The day I noticed my photography teacher looking at me differently than he did any of the other students at the Academy really had my head in the clouds.

My name is Alexander Blake and I just turned 18 during the summer. It’s my second year at Whitewall Academy for arts and science and I don’t really put a whole lot of effort into anything other than my social life, and in that way I’m really no different from the average boy my age.

I’ve got nearly red hair, bordering on the light brown scale of blond. Strawberry some call it, sand I’ve heard my mother say. My eyes are blue, light and almost gray in color and my face is kind of effeminate and pointy, yet soft. I keep up my appearance, my hair is combed back in a loose pompadour, styled with perfection in mind and only the most expensive hair care products. I’m slightly shorter than some of my peers and my best friend Victoria, who for the sake of providing context was the only one who understood me before I met him.

Mr. Wolfe. A man who was only a few years younger than my father, a legend in the community as he was both a famous photographer and painter as well. His work was plastered all through the hallways and school grounds of Whitewall, displayed with such a profound boldness to every piece, photographic or not. There was something validating about the subjects. Given the fact that the likeness of women was used in each art piece, and I was a young man.

Each portrait was the very epitome of some very fucked up power dynamics, always with a male figure looming, and if not there was sure to be a woman disheveled and helpless looking in some way. Some of the subjects seemed to be in their own world, a drug addled haze in their far away staring eyes. Something very abused looking about each beautiful young woman.

I wanted to be this subject. I wanted to be helpless to him. I knew that from the moment he put his hand on my shoulder and told me, “Alex. I see a lot of greatness in your work.” Praise that was longed for, I needed it and the touch alone made my knees weak.

I had to play it cool, with my reputation on the line. “Yeah? Th-that’s cool, I guess.