The camera was slung across his neck, one hand carefully placed on the expensive lens as he walked across central park. The rusty, tattered, camera strap left uncomfortable red marks, where his other hand lay, rubbing the never ending pain. He knew he should’ve switched out the device for his project, but he was told to be obedient. The professor insisted on “Old fashioned,” and what he has learned in passing his classes, you must follow orders.

The cobble stone path held small, discolored pebbles, and fading puddles that shifted with every step he took. His torn up Nikes began to soak in the early morning mist, and his unfitted jeans collected mud at the seams, but the afternoon sun began to dry them up. His slick back hair was previously combed up in his dorm room, from what felt like hours before. His sprint became a slow walk, stepping in slow paces across the rocks, carelessly avoiding the puddles.

Through his thin rimmed prescription glasses, he stared at the beauty around him. How the birds flew in sync, from one tree to the other, how the flowers bloomed in the most mysterious places. He looked at the radiant leaves, and rustic park benches that held many stories, of people surrounding them.  He stared through the lens, at the impeccable charm of tourists. The beauty was indescribable, like a glowing mist of rain, like a shimmer of happiness.

He looked around, peered at the new coming tourists, the way they dressed the same, as if they were all rich bankers, running late, checking their golden watches, making sure to please their significant other with the correct timing. Like a clock. Each and every person spinning around, his head begins to blur.

Then a wave of shock fogged up his glasses. And soon he was fumbling for his camera. 

He stood in place as the footsteps surrounding him began to quicken to a panic, until everyone was running. Screams invaded the spring air, creating such a shrill, others from far began to shutter. His eyes were blurry. Tears. Everyone around him seemed unclear, he felt enclosed, in between the panic and unease.

Seconds ago the heavy clang of an axe, rang through his ears, yet he made no note of it. For he brushed it off, believing it was a street performer, displaying one of their bountiful acts. The sound was drowned, through the chatter of the day. Not one person of those who were fleeing had noticed the noise, until it began towering over them, in a murderous rage.

Now the tree started to fall, and under, a man began to sprint. He was just the age of 20, as the photographer could capture, from his blurred vision, yet precise camera. He wore an old pair of mud soaked nikes on his feet, with a blown jacket, over his dirt stained t-shirt. He was sprinting, head gazing at his destination, yet the belief in his eyes dimmed. There was no sparkle of hope, just the expression of pure horror washing over his brain.

Noise admitted from the camera as he attempted to take the picture, his hand slipping, fumbling over the many buttons. He starred in the lense, grasping to the slow motion, time standing picture of the guy. Sprinting for his life. Until the moment the tree had fallen, knocking him to the ground, killing him. The photographer turned his head, quickly facing the branches of the tree. Lower. Lower. There he was.

A man, crouching behind, watching the tree fall, he appeared to wait. Click, the camera went once more.

It felt like his feet were sinking deeper into the cobble stone path, like a never ending black hole. The photographer's vision blackened in and out of reality, yet he kept his camera close. To his watery eyes, and sweat dripping face. 

Turning back towards the tree, slowly yet steadily, the photographer watched as the man left, in a blink of an eye, as if he had left no trace.

His brain was swimming, drowning in thoughts. What was happening. What. Is. He. Feeling. Right. Now? He sank to his knees.

The air seemed cold, and the silence created such a suspense, no one could describe it. The calmness seemed to last a split second, as the silence perished, and was replaced by the deafening sound of sirens and the shrill of dissolution. And what the officers have found, at the scene of the crime scene was a 20 year old photographer, dead on impact, clutching to his polished camera, with a leather strap around his neck.