Page 46 of Take My Hand

His tone brooks no argument. Clearly, he’s picked up on the vibe that this hasn’t really been coming together so far.

It’s his lack of emotion that’s not working. He’s overthinking every move he makes, being too analytical about what his body and face look like and not just feeling the moment. Not allowing himself to tunnel deep into an emotion and let me see it. Let the camera see it. He’s stuck in his head.

“What are you feeling right now?” I ask him, and he tilts his head at me, brow furrowing.

“Umm, a little awkward? Not because of you,” he rushes to reassure me.

“It’s coming across through the photos. You need to get out of your head about what you look like and just feel something. I need you to find an emotion to dig into. What about when you perform? Where does your head go?”

He cracks his knuckles, pondering my question. “It’s different every time. It’s more about the adrenaline there and the rush of the crowd. The anticipation of it all.”

“Okay,” I say, finding something else. “What about today when you came back from the interview? I could tell you weren’t in a great mood but you shoved whatever you were feeling down for my sake.”

He doesn’t contradict me, so I continue.

“Dig that shit back up. Unlock that vault you shoved it into and let it flow through your veins. Let that tell your body where to go, how to move. Stop thinking about where to place your hand and instead just feel where you should place it.”

Something clicks behind his eyes. They harden, the brown of them turning cold. I can see the gears turning in his head. His jaw ticks and I know he’s listening to me.

“Let it fuel your movements. Show me on your face. Don’t be afraid of it. If it’s rage, let it out. If it’s sadness, let it flow. If it’s frustration, take it out on everything around you. That’s what I want.”

His nostrils flare, and I know I have him where I want him. His usual calm, steadying presence shifts and I can feel it in the air. The hair on my arms stands up, and I raise my camera, watching him through the viewfinder as his shoulders hunch, chest rising and falling with his quickening breath.

I start snapping photos, letting him dig that well inside of himself and waiting for him to unleash it.

“Do you care about these?” he asks, pointing to the mirrors.

“No,” I reply, confused at why he’s asking.

But then he shifts so he’s now crouching like a baseball catcher and pulls a fist back before letting it fly through the air and shatter one of the mirrors propped up by his side.

I gasp, concerned for his hand. He needs that to play, needs it to work.

He flexes his fingers and shakes it lightly.

I continue taking photos, his body vibrating with renewed energy. A deep crease is settled between his brow but a small smile pulls at the corner of his lips as he looks at the shards at his feet.

His reflection is distorted in the pieces on the floor and even though I’m dying to pull my camera away to check how amazing I know that’s going to look in the shot, I don’t dare stop photographing him.

The air around us is charged. Both of us can feel it, can feel that this is finally getting somewhere.

He turns to his right, smashing a fist in another mirror, the gold intricate frame remaining intact as the mirror it holds shatters to the ground. He picks up another one and smashes it at his feet, pieces breaking off and scattering across the backdrop.

Even in his unleashing, he’s cautious not to step on any of the shards as he turns and smashes the ones behind them. Frames break, pieces fall, and Hayden rages.

I snap photo after photo, not able to look away as the usually calm, subdued man in front of me finally lets go and opens up that well inside of him that simmers with tension and demons.

He heaves, staring at the wreckage around him before crouching back down and hunching over his knees.

Hayden’s still for a moment, as if swallowing back down everything he just let out and regaining his control.

But no. His attention is just caught on something. On the broken shards in front of him.

He picks one of them up and flips it around in his fingers, the sun reflecting on it as it spins. His eyes follow the movement as if he’s in a trance, and I zoom in, making the shot smaller for a few frames.

I want to tell him these are great. That is exactly what I wanted from him. But I don’t dare speak. Don’t dare break his concentration.

It’s almost as if he completely forgot I’m here. He hasn’t shifted his gaze to me once since shattering the mirror and I don’t mind at all. Even if I do miss having his focus on me.

---