The slowly warming mechanic gracing my hand grows heavier as I hold the shot. The frame holds a moving picture, the subjects eyes casted away from my focus, closed slightly from lethargy as they occasionally take a sip of tea, pages of their subject moving rapidly. Their eyes suddenly flit over, a smirk growing on their lips.
“Again?” they say, hunching over the table, their arms stabilizing them.
“Again,” I giggle, the frame jiggling softly out of rhythm with my chest. The subject rolls their eyes, the mechanical eye working quickly to find the subject’s focal point. The subject challenges the eye’s feat, shaking their head humorously, before the book became their subject once again.
“Oh sister dear, how does it feel to be a star.” The subject lets out an abrupt snort, rolling their eyes to contrast the smile on their face. The subject does not answer however as their eyes find their desired focal point again. The eye in my palm burns in boredom.
“You know, Rose, you should consider starting a blog.” The subject’s eyes did not waver but their voice’s focus ran amuck. I shrug, the motion creating a wave, crashing into the eye before it regains its balance.
“I would if I had better material.” The subject snickers at that, their eyes crinkling into black slits.
“So you don’t believe in your own work, Zash?” I release another wave, only to receive another shake of the focal point. The eye was losing its grit. “Well, you didn’t stop recording for a reason, right?”
“So?” The subject groans, changing their own subject with the closing of pages.
“So that means deep down, there was a purpose here. You’re not a mindless person Zash, or else you wouldn’t still be living here.” Their eyes stay still, as they now resemble a lion, for their hair frames their face with something stronger than a queenly spirit, and their eyes suddenly become foreign to me, even though I had noticed them time and time again.
We stare for awhile, the eye documenting one perspective. I move closer, trying my best to claim a certain dominance over the elder. “I’m shooken,” I whisper, trying to fight off the inevitable grin.
The subject chortles, the laugh-chuckle hybrid. “Oh my god, Zash.” I grin, the eye’s lid drooping in my droopy hand.
“But I’m still your sister.”