Julian stood frozen, staring at the projected image of his father’s wartime betrayal. The silence in the drying room was suffocating. He swayed slightly, as if struck.
I moved deliberately, without a sound, to the side of the room. Here, four industrial-sized vats, filled with film processing chemicals, bubbled gently. The air above them shimmered faintly with corrosive fumes.
Nitric acid. Developer. Fixer. Stop bath. Each one a powerful solvent, designed to dissolve film emulsion and base alike.
I picked up two reels from the small shelf beside the vats. One was the illicit micro-reel, its lead casing cool against my palm. The other was the master negative of my mother’s WWII combat documentary, years of my life’s work. The film Julian had claimed as his own.
I held them both above the largest vat, the one labeled “NITRIC ACID.” The liquid fumed, a low, chemical hiss audible even over the thrum of the ventilation.
Julian’s eyes finally tore themselves from the wall and snapped to my hands. His gaze darted between the fuming acid and the reels. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
His entire legacy, built on a carefully constructed narrative of family honor and stolen work, was now suspended by my fingers, inches above annihilation. My own life’s work hung there with it. The choice was absolute.
+ There are no comments
Add yours