A picture tells a thousand words. That's how the saying goes, isn't it? This picture certainly told a thousand words, it held a thousand tears too. Each tear payment in kind for blood shed over a number of years. I stared at it for long enough, the image burning itself back into my memory and in doing so, the memories began to slowly seep back. I tried to chase them away but my eyes couldn't leave the image. Faded through time, but everything still so clear. I'd nearly forgotten that day. I'd tried so hard to forget it, block it out. Lock those memories away so I could get on with my life. Now, faced with the proof that it had really happened the old thoughts washed over me.

The best days of my life, they'd said. College days, those carefree days of hedonism and fun, I'd believed them. I'd signed up, a course on film and media. Choose something that interests you, they'd said. So I did, I wanted to learn how to capture the moment. So that I'd always be able to look back and remember things, watching it in full colour with Dolby-stereo sound. I never did do much of that; my college days didn't last long. War broke out. Middle-east conflict, they'd been fighting for years. It was old news. Breaking news reported that India and Pakistan had nuclear weapons, and that they would use them if the US didn't back down. Old news. It had been like a cat and dog fight for a number of years.

When America was wiped out, it took a few days to register. Nuclear warfare wasn't meant to be reality. It was an empty threat because surely everyone knew what it led to. The Americans had, their nuclear weapons secured away behind so much red tape that they'd never be used. Pakistan and India had been more liberal. Their red tape consisted of someone somewhat in command shouting, "Nuke the bastards!" And that had been that. For the most part, America was gone.

We had all expected to die then. Why would Pakistan and India stop what they'd started? Surely this was the apocalypse, our judgement day, but although they didn't lay down arms, they promised not to nuke anyone else. The promises held true, yet still they fought. For what cause, I can't recall. I don't think anyone really knew why World War Three broke out. Something to do with avenging America, avenge the states through the deaths of millions in a bloody war that would last for decades. I'm sure it had seemed a good idea at the time.

I had tried for the peaceful option of a student, the seventies revisited, we all wanted peace. Peace man, just after I've blasted hell out of the terrorists with my Kalashnikov. Peace was worth a try; it just wasn't a viable option in those times. Pakistan and India didn't have a fighting force they made good terrorists though. But they didn't need a fighting force, Japan and China made up for that. World war indeed, countries squaring off over old troubles, who needed diplomats when a few hundred heavily armed soldiers will do the trick?

After my attempt to be a neo-hippy, waving my banner and wearing tie-dye, I took to recording a visual record of what I experienced. Armed with my rifle and a SLR camera, I'd captured everything I could think of. From mutilated bodies to soldiers enjoying a raucous night out. I'd ended up in hospital twice, shot by my own people when I got in the way taking pictures. It was one thing that seemed ironic about the whole thing; those who fought to protect me were just as keen to shoot me if I happened to wander into the wrong place.

I opened my eyes again and glanced back at photograph, fingering the grubby edges. It had been a favourite picture of mine. It had captured everything so well. It had signified the end of the war, when the troops gave up, the governments hadn't had a say in the matter; the men were weary. Weary of the constant fight for survival for reasons that no one could quite remember. It was like a petty squabble in a schoolyard, it could go on for months, and then oneday the boys will just shake and make up. The soldiers did this on behalf of their stubborn leaders, guns were thrown aside and they embraced their enemies.

The picture showed them embracing. Falling to death in each other's arms while a madman with an automatic rifle tore them apart. Blood had rained down upon us, coating the corpses that lay discarded like toys on the road, and my picture had caught all of it, the blood, the horror, the death of these men finally finding peace. The war had ended after that, but for me, that incident had captured every aspect of the war, the insanity and finally the reconciling. I treasured that image and I hated that image. It represented everything I wanted to forget.

Tears pricked in my eyes as I gently put it away, I didn't want to think about it anymore. About politicians acting akin to schoolboys, having stupid, petty fights that ended up with over half the world dead. Life had moved on, as a world, we'd come as close to forgetting about that messy business as was humanely possible. I'd often dreamed at college about becoming famous, my movies or stills being so passionate that they'd bring people to tears; my collection had brought the nation to tears after the war.

Now they'd rather just forget about me, I, like the war was something that was just history. No one wanted to know me anymore; I lived for the sake of living. Waiting for the day I'd die, a day I would be indifferent towards, life barely mattered, and I assumed death would just make all those people happy, tie up the loose ends. If I was dead, I could no longer remind them of what happened. They could go back to pretending it never occurred. And now, as I look back, at my dusty photo albums and faded life, my college days were the best days of my life, they brought me fame, albeit only for five minutes. They gave me adventure. But to be honest, I'd rather have lived the quiet life.

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