A/N: An angsty oneshot inspired by the Peter Gabriel song of the same name. Reviews are always welcomed.

Family Snapshot

The streets are lined with camera crews
Everywhere he goes is news.
Today is different.
Today is not the same.
Today I make the action.
Take snapshot into the light, snapshot into the light;
I'm shooting into the light.

He sits on an old wooden chair, the only piece of furniture left in the abandoned apartment. Hanging his head low, he takes one last calming breath before rising and taking up the rifle from a nearby corner.

He knows that what he is about to do is wrong by any definition, but it doesn’t stop him from loading a single cartridge into the rifle.

The events of exactly one year ago led him to this godforsaken room on the sixth floor, to this miserable state of existence.

But he mustn’t remember. There was time for that later. In fact, where he was bound to end up, he would have plenty of time for contemplation.

He knows that the slightest emotion could cause him to waver, and that is something he can’t afford today.

It is time to make the man responsible for his present state pay. Sure, he has a wife, and normally he would feel bad for someone about to endure such loss. But she needs to know how he felt a year ago, when his loved one had been killed in such a similar manner.

But it wasn’t only his true love he had lost; their child had seen his final hour that day too.

The fact that this man had the conscious, or utter lack thereof, to end the lives of his family and countless others like them is probably what drove him to this.

He had thought of going after the gunman, the one who had pulled the trigger itself, but what would that do? He was just another nameless enforcer. He knew he must go after the source, if anything were to come of it.

He doubted it would, but that doesn’t slow him from turning the radio on and taking a low seat by the open window.

Four miles down the cavalcade moves on,
Driving into the sun.

As he listens to the monotonous drone emitting from the box beside him, he looks out into the sunset, above the roaring crowd. Taking a hand off the gun, he runs it through his dark hair and continues to gaze at the vibrantly painted sky.

He knows this will be the last sunset he may ever see, and his eyes remain fixed on the horizon a second longer than necessary, if only to preserve the beauty in his mind.

He does not want to lose the image, but he has lost so much already. He figures he might as well add to the ever-growing list.

Two miles to go, they're clearing the road.
The cheering has really begun.
I've got my radio,
I can hear what's going on.

As the crowd grew louder below, he knows the time for action was approaching. It makes him sick to think that every person down there is cheering for this monster.

I've been waiting for this…
I’ve been waiting for this….

All you people in TV land,
I will wake up your empty shells.
Peak-time viewing blown in a flash,
As I burn into your memory cells.
'Cos I’m alive…

And all those at home, on their comfortable couches, with their comfortable families and equally comfortable lives, just watching. He knows he deeply envies them, for that is all he ever wanted: a family. He had that, if only for the briefest of times, and he would have been able to keep it if not for the man rounding the corner. In fact, the life of this man and that of his family was about to get a whole lot less comfortable.

A grim, unfamiliar smile settles on the soon-to-be-assassin’s face with this knowledge.

He hadn’t smiled in over a year, but he knew he couldn’t classify this upward turn of the lips as a sign of happiness.

He would never be happy again.

He notices that this notion doesn’t upset him anymore and tries not to wonder what he had become in a short 365 days.

Because, in truth, he really doesn’t know.

But he needn’t think of that now, for the moment of truth lay straight ahead.

They're coming 'round the corner with the bikers at the front.
I'm wiping the sweat from my eyes.
it's a matter of time...
it's a matter of will…
And the governor's car is not far behind,
He's not the one I’ve got in mind.
'Cos there he is-the man of the hour, standing in the limousine…
If you don't get given you learn to take,
And I will take you.

His target lay in plain sight now. Even with countless guards surrounding the elegant automobile, the soon-to-be-assassin’s eyes never leave the sight of his target. With a slightly shaking hand, he shuts the radio off, seeing no further use for it.

He takes a brief second, draws in a final breath, and raises his hand to the rifle.

He looks down the scope, positioning the translucent cross over the offending skull in the distance.

When his hand reaches the trigger, he freezes, but only for a moment.

This momentary hesitation doesn’t stop him from pulling the trigger in one fluid motion.

Holding my breath
Release the catch
And I let the bullet fly

Chaos breaks out below, and he is back to that fateful night.

He hears the panicked, desperate, identical screams and can’t help but think of what his loved one was thinking when the trigger was pulled so many nights ago.

He wishes he could have been there before the deed had been done. All that was able to pass through his mind was the fact that he could have prevented their deaths, or at the very least died trying.

‘If only’ was how all of his thoughts had begun ever since.

He suddenly drops the gun and hears the deafening sound as it clatters on the filthy, tiled floor.

His hand goes to his worn back pocket, from which he extracts a photograph.

As his eyes remain fixed on the picture, a single tear escapes his eye and falls onto the tightly gripped paper.

With an angry hand, the assassin attempts to wipe the offending liquid from the photograph, but only succeeds in creating a deep watermark.

He stops, realizing his efforts are in vain, and begins to wait, eyes never leaving the photo.

His last minutes of freedom are brief, however, for dozens of uniforms rapidly storm into the small apartment on the sixth floor soon thereafter.

As he is roughly pushed to the dirt-covered ground, he tries to hang onto the picture. His attempt is in vain, though, for when he is cuffed and searched the photo is wretched from his grasp. It is carelessly tossed to the filth-covered tile. Anger rapidly consumes him, only to be replaced equally as fast with a longing for the photo.

He tries to move towards the paper, but the wind causes it to float away, just out of his reach.

It continues to carry the photo further and further from the dark-haired man that so desperately desires it.

When he finally realizes all of his efforts are in vain, he sags to the floor, defeated, and allows the officers and commotion that surround him to consume him.

This realization does not prevent him from following the beloved snapshot with longing, yet resigned eyes as it glides out the open window.

And outside, the photograph of a man with curled, sand-blond hair smiling as he holds an equally happy child, sitting next to a familiar dark-haired man flutters gently down to the streets, unnoticed.