Warrior Blue

by Kelsey Kingsley

  "Oh, I have your permission?" I questioned condescendingly.

  "Yes." She gestured toward the paper, and I leaned forward with a smirk I wasn't quite proud of.

  Dammit, I really was being defensive and I wasn’t proud of it. In fact, I felt like a child. But she'd struck a nerve with that God shit. The weak and desperate fell on God, while the realists see the world for exactly what it is. Is it depressing? Sure, but so is the brutal and tragic reality that some kids are born perfect, full of potential and promise, only to have their problematic brother steal it all away.

  With a bored sigh, I lowered my gaze to the page, and there in bold black cursive, I read, "Why won't he give himself a chance?" The question was circled once, twice, and underlined, like this was the good doctor's purpose in life to answer this one, stupid question.

  I looked back to her and asked, "What do you want me to say to this?"

  She dropped her pen into her lap. "I want you to tell me why you live like this. Why you're so pissed off. Why you won't let yourself live your damn life."

  "I already told you, my br—"

  "You blame a lot on Jake, I know, and maybe that blame is justified to an extent. But you're not the only one in a situation like this, Blake, and many of those other people live their lives the best they can. So, what is it about your special situation that makes you different from them? Why is it such a struggle for you to live?"

  Anger, rage, and the ever-persistent sting of guilt injected itself into my veins. It was hot, scorching, and I jumped from my chair, startling the good doctor. I stabbed my chest with a finger as I loomed over her, like the mythical being she apparently believed lived in the sky, and began to shout.

  "Because what gives me the right to live? Tell me that, you know-it-all bitch! What gives me the fucking right to go about my miserable fucking life, finding love, finding happiness, finding success in whatever-the-fuck, when he had it all ripped out from under him?”

  The smooth, slim column of her throat shifted with apprehension as she swallowed her shock. Her tongue flicked out, wetting her lips, and she asked, "But why is that your cross to bear, Blake? Why do you live your life like you're some prisoner to your brother?"

  "Because nobody else will," I stated simply, knowing immediately that it was only partially the truth. So, with the need to speak more honestly and to spit the poison from my tongue, I added, "And because it's my fucking fault."

  ***

  The needles jutted, in and out, in and out, threading the ink through the skin of Shane's calf. The tender, naked flesh tightened beneath my gloved fingertips, flinching involuntarily with every hastened prick. Hunched over his leg, I traced the lines with my machine, as he chatted with Celia about his time at ModInk.

  "Wasn't it owned by your dad in the seventies?" she asked, her voice pulled taut with excitement. She'd never admit to fangirling over the guy, but she was totally swooning in the girliest of ways. I looked up from my work to smirk suggestively at her, and when she noticed, her eyes widened with a stern, silent warning to keep my big mouth shut.

  "Yeah, it was," Shane answered. His voice held that euphoric quality a lot of people adopt when in the throes of receiving new ink. The haze. The high. I knew it well, and listening to him now, nearly breathless and serene, I was jealous. "He left it to me when he retired. That was nine years ago now. Crazy how fast time flies."

  "I remember when you took over," she said. "The internet exploded. Nobody trusted you."

  The room filled with Shane’s short, gruff laugh. Like the memory still held insult for him. "Yeah, nobody likes change. But I'd like to think I've done a good job. I mean, I love my dad, but things had gotten pretty stale, in my opinion. He didn't like to take many risks, you know? He was very set in his ways, in the styles he liked, and didn't want to venture outside of it."

  Celia winced apologetically. "I remember. He showcased a lot of traditional artists, standard piercings, and not much else."

  Folding an arm beneath his head, Shane nodded. "He was afraid of the controversy that might come up if he, I don't know, showed off a killer set of microdermals or subdermal implants. He didn't wanna piss off the reader base." He chuckled lightly. "The guy hated the idea of stepping on toes. He hates confrontation. Hell, you should see him on holidays. The family starts talking politics or religion, and he flees the scene."

  "Sounds like my family," Celia laughed with him. Flirtation bled from the sound and I made a mental note to tease her about it later on.

  But for now, I simply quipped, "Sounds like every family."

  "God, isn't that the fucking truth," Shane muttered, shaking his head.

  The needle dipped close to the ridge of his ankle bone and he flinched. I lifted my machine on reflex and flitted my gaze to his, making sure he was okay. “You good?”

  "Yeah. Sorry, man." He smiled with the embarrassment of a guy trying to be tough but who couldn't shy away from the pain of needle hitting bone.

  "No worries." I took the opportunity to wipe his skin of excess ink and blood and change my gloves. "Just a little more line work, and then we'll take a break before I start shading, okay?"

  "Sounds good." He lifted a thumbs up. “I could use a smoke.”

  "If this guy gets too rough, don't be afraid to kick him in the face," Celia teased, rounding the table to brush her knuckles against my shoulder.

  "Nah, I'm good. No pain, no gain, right?" A chuckle rumbled from Shane's chest as he eyed Cee with half-hooded lids. I knew carnal interest when I saw it, and I smirked privately, dipping my head to return my attention to my work.

  "So, Blake, how long have you been tattooing?"

  The realization that I'd forgotten about the interview laid over me like a too-hot blanket. "Hey, uh, Shane ..." I leaned away from the table, sat straight on my stool, and pulled my gloves off before scratching at my ear. "I forgot to mention … about the interview ..."

  Lifting on his elbows, Shane said, "Dude, I caught the drift with your vow of silence over the past hour."

  Celia's laugh burst from beside me. "Oh, don't take it personally. He's usually a mute while he works."

  "Not always," I muttered in defense.

  "No, it's cool," Shane cut in with a smile. "You get in the zone, I understand. But seriously, don't worry about the interview. I'll get you another day. I'm just trying to make conversation. Unless you'd really prefer to stay silent, in which case Cee and I can continue shooting the shit."

  Cee. My ears pricked at the warm familiarity in his tone as the stolen nickname dropped from his mouth. He smiled at my friend, his eyes meeting hers, and when her cheeks blotched in a new shade of red, I knew any other prospects on Celia’s horizon had been forgotten. Maybe even for good.

  I bowed my head and set back to following the lines, drowning my thoughts in the hum of the machine. "I've been tattooing since I was sixteen," I told him.

  "Sixteen, huh?"

  Celia pulled over a chair. "Gus took him on as an apprentice before he even finished high school, after he’d been fucking around with a tattoo machine in his buddy’s basement."

  I nodded. “Yep. That’s about right.”

  "When did you jump on board?" he asked her, stealing the opportunity to learn something about her.

  "Oh, I started working here, when was it? Ten years ago?" Cee turned the question on me, and I nodded.

  "Just about."

  "There are two other artists here, Kara, Gus's daughter, and her husband, Matt, but they’re usually here on weekends or evenings," she added, looking back to Shane.

  "But this guy is the talent," he complimented.

  Celia's pride was burnt by the comment. I saw it in the faint wilt of her smile. "It's why Gus won't ever let him leave. He'd never get any business."

  "Oh, knock it off," I grumbled. "You're good."

  She rolled her eyes in my direction. "Right. I'm good. But my skills are a dime a dozen. Yours, though? You have your own style. People come to you looking for original wo
rk—"

  "Because that's what I do," I laughed, grabbing a paper towel to wipe down Shane's leg.

  "Right! And the clientele knows it! Me? I get the walk-ins."

  "Nothing wrong with that," Shane chimed in.

  "No, there's not," she agreed. "And it's good work. I love it. But Blake? He's wasting his potential."

  Reverting to silence, I cleaned off the muddied mess of crimson and ink from his skin now raised and blotched with irritation. I hummed with satisfaction at the sight, at my crisp handiwork, and rolled away to toss my gloves and used paper towel in the trash.

  "Okay, man. Break time."

  With a stretch, he sat up and favored his leg as he lowered his feet to the floor. "So, why don't you get out of here and open your own place? You would explode, man."

  "Yeah," I nodded in melancholic agreement. "It'd be nice, but it's not in the cards right now. Maybe someday," I lied.

  Celia offered an acknowledging, sympathetic smile as Shane remained in the clueless dark.

  It was better that way.

  ***

  "You're all set," I announced. "Lemme just grab a picture for my Instagram."

  After scouring Shane’s Instagram page and learning he was a big classic horror movie buff, I had decided to immortalize an ode to horror on the outside of his calf and managed to create something fresh and different. I'd mulled over the design for hours until deciding on a geometric piece framing a gritty shot of classic Nosferatu. Sketchy cobwebs and stippling decorated the surrounding negative space, fading elegantly into the neighboring tattoos.

  "Fucking sick, man," Shane marvelled, struggling to catch a good glimpse of his leg in the position he was in. "You're an absolute master of your craft. I hope you know that."

  "Thank you," I accepted the compliment graciously while those inner demons reminded me that I didn't deserve good things like talent and praise. I grabbed my phone and snapped the shot, making a mental note to put it up later.

  "Do you mind if I throw it up on my social media?" Shane asked.

  I swallowed as the temptation to tell him that, yes, I did mind bubbled up in my throat. It jittered against my tongue, demanding to be said, but I bit back the words and pushed a smile. "Of course not."

  "I'll give you credit," he assured me, and my smile waned.

  "Just give the shop credit," I instructed him, and he studied me with disbelief for a moment before shrugging.

  "It feels like a crime to not mention you by name, but yeah, sure. Okay."

  I refused his money, and he refused to accept a freebie. So, I told him the shop's hourly rate and low-balled the amount of time we'd been working. But even still, Shane stuffed seven hundred-dollar bills into my hand and told me to keep the change. It felt like robbery, but he insisted, and I tried to accept the hefty tip graciously and failed.

  "Can I give you a piece of advice?" he asked, but I had a sneaking suspicion it wasn't up for debate.

  "Sure," I said, wiping down my table.

  "The great ones never get anywhere living on modesty," he told me, pulling on his jacket.

  One side of my mouth curled upward into a pained half-smile. "The great ones are trying to get somewhere. I'm just trying to pay my bills."

  He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. I was under the microscope of his scrutiny for two seconds longer than comfortable, and I turned away to clean the counter.

  "You really have no idea how good you are, huh?" I remained silent as he smirked. "Man, I'm gonna feel honored as fuck to have known you before you made it big," he stated confidently, and I looked over my shoulder to remind him, like a broken fucking record, that I was never going to make it big. But when I met his eye, he only winked. "I'll be in touch, Blake."

  "Take care." I offered him a brief nod of my chin as I dissected that wink. What the fuck did that mean? What shit was he going to pull?

  As he left, the paranoia settled in my stomach as a balled-up bundle of nausea and nerves. So heavy and tight, I worried myself to the point where my gut turned sour. My heart crashed against the fragile walls of its cage, desperate to break open to freely jitter with nervous dread and anticipation. My mind rewound and settled bitterly on that one thing that had started this all.

  The game changer.

  The plan ruiner.

  That fucking butterfly tattoo.

  I wished I could go back all those years, to when Audrey’s sister had walked through the door of the shop. To that moment when she’d asked me to draw up a design, something completely different from my other work. And I wished I had said no.

  Chapter Six

  DAYS PASSED BEFORE Shane said anything on social media. But on Saturday it popped up at the top of my Instagram feed, along with the notice that I'd gained over a hundred new followers in less than an hour. He had mentioned the shop, as promised, but he'd also mentioned me.

  My first reaction was to lash out in anger. I deliberately instructed him not to do that. I didn't want the attention. And I didn't want the forty new messages and requests for appointments. But then, as I read the comments and the contents of my inbox, I felt the first dose of praise zing at my veins and I learned just how easily it would be to become addicted.

  Without Jake around to remind me of why it was a bad idea to share my work, I allowed myself the hours of solitude to bask in the glory of being good at my job—fuck, scratch that, it was my passion. No guilt. No self-deprecation. Just good old-fashioned pride. This was the work that fueled my life. It was my happy place, and dammit, it felt good to be appreciated for it.

  I took the Harley out to the club that night. I was in a rare mood, a good one, and I put my name on the list without hesitation. Tonight, I'd read, and I'd let myself be proud for that, too.

  When my turn came around, I approached the microphone with confidence. It had been weeks, maybe even more, since I last read one of my poems at the club. Poetry wasn't a constant in my life, I didn't always feel the need to write. But, every now and then, I felt the call and the pressure of vile verbiage, and I gave in.

  I didn't announce my name to the audience of sordid faces and I didn't tell them the title, because it didn't have one. I never titled my poems, never gave them the respect. They were a release, mental fecal matter meant to be expelled, and nothing more.

  So, I read.

  A butterfly,

  Born on the ground,

  A crawling mess of fibers and legs.

  We see it change,

  We see it turn,

  We see the transformation,

  From fibers and legs to beauty and wings,

  And we stare,

  Awed,

  Bewildered,

  Entranced by its beauty.

  But who stares at the caterpillar?

  Ugly.

  Disgusting.

  Grub.

  We spew these hateful words,

  Shun the fibers and legs,

  Until it is beautiful.

  But is it not still a butterfly?

  I was born beautiful.

  Perfect pink toes,

  Perfect blue eyes.

  Perfection has a heavy cost,

  And I paid the price.

  Watch me grow,

  Watch me transform,

  See me change.

  Scribble the ugliness on your paper,

  Let it process,

  Save it for later.

  Godless.

  Hateful.

  Angry.

  But am I not still human?

  Am I not still a metaphorical butterfly?

  A butterfly, but in reverse.

  I stepped away from the mic and stuffed the torn-off sheet of paper into a pocket. I didn't care if I crumpled or destroyed it. It didn't matter—I never meant to keep it, anyway. I didn’t keep any of them.

  A hushed applause resounded through the club. Heads bobbed with approving nods, though I didn't need their approval or praise, much like with my tattoos. But it did feel nice, good even, to think that mayb
e some people knew where I was coming from. That empathized and maybe even understood.

  I moved my way back to my seat, ready to grab my jacket and make a run for it, when a hand laid against my back.

  "Blake?"

  The sweet melody of her voice was a ray of light, a slender stream of brightness through a pin-pricked hole in a never-ending canopy of dark. I froze on the spot, unable to move an iota of an inch. She’d rendered me speechless, motionless, and if it weren't for the vibration of my heart, I would've assumed I was dead.

  She rounded to stand before me. Shit ... When I'd seen her a week ago, how had I not noticed then what a sight she was? Sure, I’d noticed she was attractive, but now, in this new light, she left me awestruck. White-gold hair gleaming underneath the grey light of the club. Pale blue eyes taking on a navy hue in the shadows. If I believed in a heaven, I could've been convinced that she'd fallen, an angel with fractured wings.

  At the thought, my eyes dipped to a glint of silver hanging from a chain around her neck. The cross twinkled with every rise and fall of her chest, and I forced my disappointment down to the pit of my stomach. To turn and sour and haunt me later.

  "Oh, hey." I said, regarding her with the kindest smile I could muster.

  "Hey!" She grinned, showing off wide rows of white teeth. She extended her fair hand, and I hesitated. I didn't deserve to touch her, to soil her pristine skin, but I accepted and lightly held her hand in mine as she said, "Audrey. I don't know if you remember—"

  "I do," I cut in without hesitation, nodding. That tattoo etched into her chest, its black wings peeking out from the neckline of her pink t-shirt, had haunted my thoughts and world for over a week. There was no way I could mask my recognition now.

  “Sorry for bothering you,” she apologized needlessly. "I just saw you read that poem and had to tell you, it's beautiful. A little sad, but definitely beautiful."

  "Thanks," I said, but I also wanted to correct her. It wasn't beautiful. It was me, my thoughts, and there was absolutely nothing beautiful about the shit crawling around inside my brain.