Marcel paused to catch his breath, clinging to the windowsill for support. I still remember the striking ferocity of the desire that welled up in me, demanding I capture his moment of his rest on film. I snatched my camera off my nightstand and shot the picture before he was even aware it was happening. I used my Holga 120S with the broken flash hotshoe, so without that glorious light pouring into through the window, the picture would have been trash. A lucky accident. Marcel gave me a little smile as I advanced the film, then I pushed his wheelchair out of the way and helped him to the bed.

I became his physical therapist almost two years ago after his old one went on maternity leave and didn’t come back. I was obsessed with his presence and in love with his Grecian face and stoic, quiet resolve steeped in pain. I used to fret a great deal over how the public would see us together, me pushing him down the sidewalk or helping him get things off the shelves at the grocery store as his motor functions began to slide. I was terrified Marcel would one day accuse me of fetishizing him, of me making him my pet project to validate my own narcissism and worth as a human being.

Marcel never complained, not even after I started taking him home with me after therapy and our professional relationship dissolved. He was happy to be with me, away from his childhood home and mollycoddling parents. They never were able to see Marcel anything else than a helpless child. Charcot Marie-Tooth Disease is not a life ruining thing, but Marcel was schooled at home K through 12 and was not allowed to move out or even hold a job. Truth be told, I should have considered if he was using me to escape from their cage but hell I would have been ok with it if he was because then maybe we’d both be guilty of something.

After I took this photo, Marcel drank some water and then we made love. He liked when I was inside of him, came inside him. Marcel wasn’t a fan of labels. I wasn’t gay, he wasn’t gay, it was just sex. We could lie spooning for hours, sometimes talking softly, sometimes listening to music or NPR. Once in a while I’d read to him. After our fornication, we decided to just ordered in Chinese food together. We ate, made love again, and drifted off nude and sated.  

I awoke on a gorgeous Sunday morning to discover Marcel dead in my arms. He had an intracerebral brain hemorrhage brain in his sleep. I later spoke to the doctor that performed the autopsy and she said it was an extremely rare event. She asked if Marcel complained of headaches on our last night together. I told her in a soft, shaking voice how he was always in pain. His daily medications would have dulled the warning symptoms. She put her hand on my shoulder and she was sorry. I was sorry too. We were all sorry. It was not fair.

I printed out this photo and displayed it during his funeral. Marcel’s mother screamed at me for perverting and killing her son. I yelled at her for smothering and infantilizing him. Marcel’s father stepped in and separated us. He considered the picture for a long, deep moment then said, “This is the son I always imagined I had. He looked like me when I was his age. Tell me… was he happy? with you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Then that’s good.” He nodded.

After the services, I caught him taking the photo and putting it in his car. I never said a word. I had the negative at home and a print propped up on my nightstand. When I got home, the negative went in a box with the stained sheets wrapped in plastic and I never opened it again.

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The model is Kevin Baker; the photographer is Gregory Vaughan.
This is a work of fiction.