The Black Tattoo
She
took a drag on her cigarette and blew out the smoke slowly, thoughtfully.
“Don’t
worry about it.”
“You
can’t just say that.”
“I
can say anything I want. I don’t see what it matters.” Another slow drag. He knocked the cigarette
from her hand.
He
didn’t even know why he bothered putting up with her bullshit most of the time.
There seemed to be no point to it when
they weren’t banging.
“You
can leave any time you want,” she said, seeming to read his thoughts.
“I
know I can.” He couldn’t even admit to
himself the possibility that he might have caught feelings for her. There was nothing worth it from her. She was just a normal girl. She has dull blonde hair. Large bags under her heavily lidded eyes. The typical stoner look about her. But there was something about her that
intrigued him. And no matter how hard he
tried, he couldn’t shake this feeling that there might be something special
about her that he couldn’t quite place.
Perhaps
it was the black tattoo that covered the left side of her chest, only visible
when she wore those low cut shirts. It
was difficult to describe, sometimes it looked like a flower, or a whole tree
full of flowers, and other times it reminded him of the crosshatching of scars
and stitches. And no matter how many
times he asked, she refused to tell him what it meant.
“I’ll
tell you when you’re ready for it,” she would say.
But
no matter how long he stuck around, she refused to tell him. Despite his pleadings, she would not
budge. This both frustrated him, and yet
was the reason he stayed. There was
something special about this, something he couldn’t quite place his finger
on. And so he stayed.
“Well
aren’t you the hero.” She sat up and
crossed her arms over her chest. The two
of them sat in the basement glaring at each other from the couches that faced
opposite of each other.
“Well
if I weren’t here, you probably wouldn’t be either.”
“I
hate you,” she spat. “I don’t deserve
this bullshit. You’re such a piece of
shit.”
He
stood up and crossed the room, stretching his hands to grasp them around her
neck. “I don’t deserve this either,
bitch. The world isn’t all about you.”
He
sat on top of her, holding her down by her shoulders now. She stared up at him with her green eyes that
lacked a certain something. The worn out
black makeup around her eyes gave accentuated that crazy stoner look, but also
had a certain sense of allure to him. It
matched the black of her tattoo, barely visible through her lace shirt. Today it reminded him of a weeping willow,
but raised at the edges, as if the ink were brand new.
“You
know you can leave?” she asked. “You
don’t have to feel guilty for me.”
“I
don’t. I don’t know why I’m here, but
I’m here. That should mean something.”
“What?”
He
didn’t respond. Simply stared at the
tattoo through her black lace shirt. He
moved his hands from her shoulders to the bottom of the shirt, and began to
drag it up, pulling it up so he could get a full view of the tattoo, and let
the shirt lay on her face, covering her cryptic gaze. A weeping willow would be the only way to
describe it, wide and hovering. More
than that, it seemed as if tattoo itself were actually weeping. Tears streaming out in the way of black ink. He felt his own eyes get moist as he traced
the lines of the tattoo, over her heart and towards her breasts, disappearing
into another world, entirely. He wiped
away the moisture, pulled down her shirt to look her in the eye, and viciously
took hold of her lips with his own.
And
this is how it goes.
#
“How
long have you had it?”
“As
long as I can remember.”
“How
long is that.”
“I
don’t remember.”
“Put
down the cigarette.”
“Make
me.”
“It’s
going to kill you.”
“Maybe
I’m already dead.”
Moments
like this frustrated him to no end. He
squeezed on her hand, the one that wasn’t slowly killing herself. He wished that she could feel his frustration
and his passion through that squeeze.
Maybe she did. And maybe she just
didn’t care.
“Besides,”
she said, finishing it and stomping it out on the curb in front of the movie
theatre they were about to enter, “I don’t see why you care.”
“Because
I do. Because I care about you.”
“I
still don’t see why.”
Today
the tattoo was a collage of faces, all sewn together, all laughing or
angry. Abstract eyes stared at him,
pierced his gaze. To make matters worse,
the tattoo had angry red marks surrounding it, making it raise her skin, making
it look as if it might break open at any moment. He was scared for her. Scared for what this thing was doing to her.
He
looked into her green eyes, wide open.
The make up surrounding them was spotty, as if it had not been done in
several days. She looked as if she had
lost a bit of weight, and it make the dark spots beneath her eyes just a little
bit more prominent. The closer he seemed
to get, the worse she seemed to get.
No
longer did he wonder why he bothered with her when they weren’t having
sex. No, rather, he felt a certain duty
to her. As if he had to protect her from
something, save her from something.
Perhaps the morphing black tattoo she could not explain. Perhaps from herself. He worried about her thin frame when they
were around each other.
He
never imagined he would feel this much duty towards a person.
From
time to time, he still felt old pieces of himself. But they were foreign to him. Whenever he would go out with friends to
smoke pot or to get drunk, he felt himself constantly missing her. It was a weird feeling to have, to feel as if
he were missing a part of himself. And
he didn’t know if he liked it or not.
#
“You
need to get it looked at. I’m worried
about it. About you.”
“I’m
fine.”
Today
the tattoo was smaller, a long line of stitches covering the space over her
heart. It was raised off of the skin,
oozing, and festering.
He
had to tell her.
He
had been denying the feeling to himself for so long. All these long years, watching the tattoo
morph, he had denied himself.
“Do
you want to know what it means?” she asked.
He nodded. “Then say it.”
“I’m
in love with you.”
Slowly,
a tear falling down from her cheek, she took his hand in hers and placed it
over the tattoo, over the stitches, over her heart.
Where
he should have felt a steady thump, there was nothing.
She
was empty.
No comments:
Post a Comment