Sarah was her name and that was the only thing I really knew about her. She drifted in and out of my life after a violent encounter with a dangerous man. She shot him for what he tried to do and I had no problem with that. He did not have a name but she wanted me to act as if I were him, to speak like him, to move like him. She made me do this if I wanted to know what really happened. I made myself feel rage at all times, to suffer a mixture of aggression and powerlessness. I came to grips with a constant dull hatred and used my fists to get what I wanted. In my sleep I ground my teeth in frustration. I took advantage of weakness in others. What little light there ever was, is still here now.

I found her standing by the side of a road in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, where I lived. I saw her as I was driving by and pulled over to see if she needed help. At first she ignored me, and acted as if I wasn’t there. I repeatedly asked if she needed help but she just stared into the forest. Eventually she looked in my direction, made eye contact and without saying a word got into my truck. I got into the drivers seat and asked where she needed to go. Again she said nothing. I asked if she lived around here, knowing that there were no houses for several miles in either direction. She did not respond. I asked if she wanted a ride home but she still would not speak. I asked if she needed to go to the hospital and with this question she again looked into my eyes. But still she stayed silent. Finally out of desperation I asked if she wanted to go to a bar and she said yes.

She said that if I gave her a place to stay that I could photograph her any way I wanted. I told her to be careful about that kind of offer and she said that there wasn’t anything that I could think of that she would not want to do.

She never left my house. I would leave for work in the morning. She would stay in bed. I don’t know when she got up. By the time I got home from work she was usually occupying herself, playing with my dog or reading one of my books. She never left the house or even made a phone call. As far as I know she had no contact with the outside world while she stayed with me.

I made the mistake of telling her that some of my plates used to belong to my former girlfriend, Pearl. When I got home from work that night she broke half of them. She said that only half were actually mine.

One night after dinner she told me that she had to leave. I knew that this was coming and that there was nothing I could do to change her mind. But she did not need to leave that night. She had been with me for three weeks. Three days later I drove her to the spot on route 25C, where I found her. We didn’t talk much on the drive. I asked her where she would go and what she would do. She said she didn’t know but that she would manage. I helped her with her bag and kissed her goodbye. She said she loved me. As I drove away I looked back. She was walking down a dirt road into the woods. The next day I went back, I had to know what happened to her. But there was nothing to suggest that she had ever been there, not even a footprint. I walked back into the woods for about a mile but it became too swampy to continue. I never saw her again.

She smelled like the forest after rain, with a faint hint of something floral. She told me what it was but I can’t remember any more. There is so much I have forgotten. She had a lipstick called “Trailer Trash”. I made her put it on for the pictures. She also had a loose dress that looked more like a slip. She wore it most of the time.

I woke up in the middle of the night about two weeks after she left. I thought I heard her voice saying something. I got up and looked around in the house but she wasn’t there. But it smelled like she had just left, I could smell her in every room.

When I photographed her I became obsessed or even possessed. I didn’t care about her or even myself, I was only concerned with the pictures. I would have done anything I had to. I was cruel at times and I don’t know why she stayed with me. She never complained, even when she was cold or tired or angry. Other times she would try to do things I could not photograph, things which could not or maybe should not be remembered. She said we were like crows, living off dead things and if we stayed together we would both rot.

Her eyes were grey. When she was cold they were a watery blue. Her lips had no colour and so she always wore lipstick. Her hair was dirty blond and messy. Her hands were always cold. Her fingernails also had no colour but were very clean. Her voice was low but she spoke loudly. There was never any doubt in her words.

TEXT BY BRIAN D. MILLER