Of all of his tools, he loved the camera best. It was a thing of beauty: lightweight, responding to the slightest touch, never the slightest hiccup with the mechanics. Others might call it crude, simple, old-fashioned, but he had always admired simplicity in machinery – the clicking of wheels, the twist of a lens, the press of a button.
He looked through the camera and saw the surge of the crowd. Black uniforms and black rifles filled his vision when he gave the slightest twist to the lens. Beyond, he saw the man himself, dressed in a white suit to match his white smile. He zoomed, focused on the face, a face that flashed across television screens and newspapers. The most famous face in the world.
He saw it again, dead center. Smiling.
He pressed the button, knowing that he would make the moment live forever.
The police never found the shooter. In the rush of the maddened crowd, the shock of the moment, it was impossible to secure the scene. It went down as unsolved, an atrocity without an answer.
Nobody noticed one man amongst hundreds, a little camera clasped in his steady hands.
Word Count: 193
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credit to A Mixed Bag.