Warrior Blue

by Kelsey Kingsley

Beneath the dimmed lights, I watched a faint pink blush creep its way up her neck and blossom in springtime flourish over her cheeks. It was cold, the middle of October in Salem, and the cockles of my stony heart echoed with a deathly winter chill, but this woman reminded me of flowers and newborn animals. Of warmth, sunshine, and color.

  "Are you here with anyone?" she asked.

  "Nah," I answered, uncomfortable that she'd asked.

  With a flutter of her hand, she gestured toward a table. "My cousins and I are over there, if you want—"

  "I was actually just leaving."

  The abruptness of my response rendered her momentarily speechless. Her mouth was frozen in a pink O that shouldn't have made me think lewdly, yet it did. I thought of her, on her knees, dirtying up those light-colored jeans. This is why I can't find someone, I thought, sending a message out to Dr. Travetti. I'm filthy, soiled, and I'd only ruin someone else. Especially someone like her.

  "Oh, okay," she finally spoke. "Can I walk you to your car, then?"

  "I rode my motorcycle," I corrected her, as if it mattered, and began to walk away. "It was nice seeing you again, Aud—"

  "Hold on," she called to me, before telling someone else, "I'll be right back."

  I listened for her footsteps. Hoping she was following, hoping she decided to stay behind. I moved quicker toward the stairs that would lead me to the sidewalk, tricking myself into believing she wasn't behind me, until I heard her say my name again.

  "Blake! Goodness, you walk fast."

  I didn't want to be a dick. Honestly, I didn’t. So, I made myself stop. I allowed her to catch up, and when she did, she smiled up into my eyes.

  "Sorry," I muttered in a voice so low, it seemed nearly sinister to my ears.

  "It's okay."

  I didn't want her to walk with me outside into the parking lot. I didn't want her to see the bike that only came out to play once a week, when my brother wasn’t my responsibility. I didn't want her light to seep anymore into the fractured seams of my life, but I did nothing to stop her as she followed me up the stairs.

  I pulled a breath of cool air into my lungs and closed my eyes. Audrey did the same, as if she was mocking me. Or maybe it was also her way, to appreciate the chill of a sunless night.

  "It's beautiful tonight," she commented quietly. "I love the fall."

  "So do I."

  She laughed lightly. "Oh, I'm so surprised." There was sarcasm in her tone and when I looked to her, I saw that her bottom lip was trapped between her teeth, just begging for the permission to smile. "And don't tell me ... Your favorite color is black."

  My lips curled in a reluctant smile. "I can't imagine what your first clue was."

  Audrey shrugged. "Oh, I don't know ..." She took a step back and dragged her scrutinizing gaze over my leather jacket, jeans, and boots. All black.

  I chuckled, averting my eyes toward my bike. Gleaming beneath a lamp and begging me to hop on and take it home. Home. Haven. Away from people and Audrey and that tattoo ... That fucking tattoo ...

  My eyes flicked back to the sharp black lines, teasing me from beneath her collar. The cross hung above them, playing in multiple contrasts. Darkness and light. Hell and Heaven. Evil and good. Standing there, I then felt the analogy applied to us as well. Her, in pink and denim. Me, in black and nothing but. Her, wearing the symbol of Christ. Me, wearing the anger of the damned.

  What was a woman like her doing with the brand of the devil on her chest, disguising itself as art?

  "I'll let you leave," she said apologetically. "I just wanted to thank you again for the tattoo. I'd been wanting to get it done for a while, but I was kinda scared, so I put it off. But I'm so glad to have it now. It feels like it's always belonged there."

  "I'm glad," I replied with a single nod.

  "I wasn't sure I'd feel like that," she admitted airily. "I thought I'd regret it. You know? I don't have any other tattoos, so I wasn't sure what it'd be like after it was done. I mean, once it's there, it's really there. It took my cousins to convince me ..."

  She prattled on nervously, and my eyes dipped to her mouth. Her lips moved; her voice as gentle as the breeze around us. Her lip gloss reflected the light, glittering with multicolored sparkles, emphasizing the rounded curve of her bottom lip and the subtle dip of her Cupid's bow. I stopped listening to her speak and focused on those lips, so pronounced in structure but so temptingly soft in appearance. My mind wandered, wondering what her lip gloss tasted like and if it would glide against my lips or create a tacky barrier that would only make me frustrated and angry.

  "... you know what I mean?"

  I lifted my eyes back to hers. Shame burned my cheeks, realizing I had no idea what she'd just said, and I smiled through the humility. "Sorry. What did you say?"

  "Oh." She dropped her gaze to the sidewalk and her shoes, before clearing her throat. "Um, I was just saying that I really love the tattoo."

  That wasn't all she had said, and I knew it. I felt guilty. I felt like a pervert. But I pushed myself to smile genuinely as I replied, "I'm glad."

  "You truly have a gift, Blake," she said softly, and fuck, I hated when people said that. It implied that it was intentionally given, that it wasn't just a silly, stupid fluke. But I said nothing as she went on, "You make people feel whole."

  Oh, if only she knew what a crock of shit that really was. I broke my brother, robbing him of any chance he’d have at being his own artist. I drained the love from my mother’s heart and stole the happiness from my dad. I was a leach, a parasite, and I was paying for it with my life.

  And that's why I needed to leave. To remove myself from her presence and get away from the twinkling sparkle of her lips and the taunting glint of that cross around her neck.

  With a curt nod and an agonizing smile, I stepped backward. "I really need to get going," I brushed her off, pushing her away with my words, and she nodded hastily.

  "Oh, of course, yeah. Get home safe, okay? Have a good night."

  "Thanks, you too."

  We parted ways and I moved swiftly toward the Harley. I was so close, ready to swing my leg over the seat and get the hell away from there, when a thought wedged itself between my resolve to leave and the need to stay.

  What the fuck does it mean?

  I thought I had let it go. I thought it no longer mattered. But with the sudden popularity of my work on Instagram and all of it leading back to that stupid fucking tattoo, the curiosity was back with a wild vengeance and I felt my lips move before I could remind myself of why this was such a bad idea.

  "Audrey, wait!" I called to her and turned around to see her glance over her shoulder. "I have a question."

  "Yeah?"

  I approached her this time, moving slowly and breathing evenly. Pulling the air in and out of my lungs, as though I was convinced it'd be the last time I'd savor the sweetness of the autumn air. She stood beneath the glow of a streetlamp that illuminated her in an ethereal glow. Her white-blonde hair pulled in the rays and put them back out into the world, shining like a beacon to be found, and I was a moth to her flame. Involuntarily succumbing to its glow.

  "This is crazy," I said more to myself, "but I've been wondering, why did your sister get that tattoo? What does it mean?"

  Her lips stretched into a smile. "I think you kinda already know.”

  "Huh?"

  "It’s life and death,” she explained frankly, never allowing her smile to wilt. “Or, as you put it, a butterfly, but in reverse.”

  Chapter Seven

  I STOOD, RIGID, with my spine locked, to keep my legs from buckling from beneath me. Had I known it already? Had I understood it's meaning when I wrote that damn poem? Had I remembered it, somewhere in my subconscious, from when I'd tattooed it to her sister's body? That was all possible, all feasible, but hearing her say the words, those exact words ...

  The good doctor's voice sounded in my ear, reminding me of signs, and the growling hellhound in my head scared her away.

  I no
dded in response, unable to speak around a tongue too dry and heavy. So, I let my eyes do the talking, and let my stance tell her I was intrigued and wanted to know more.

  Audrey shrugged, her smile now sad, as she said, "It was supposed to be a, uh, metaphor for her life, I guess."

  I was hungry now, as Dr. Travetti had said. Starving for a connection, for affection. Famished. I pinned her with my gaze and nodded again, eagerly, feeling an immediate connection to this dearly departed sister of hers. One I had touched with my art and machine.

  "Sabrina ... My sister ..." Audrey took a deep breath, as if to prepare herself. "She was born with a congenital heart defect, but we didn't know about it until we were older and it'd already progressed to the point where the doctors knew she was going to die."

  What I wanted to say was, we all die. We all get sick, get old, get run over, and we all die. But instead, I tethered myself to her offered confession, a simple piece of twine, and felt that desperation for a connection sigh with satisfaction.

  "I'm sorry," I replied.

  "It's okay." She said the words so calmly, so sincerely, like it really was okay that her sister's heart had been diseased and gave out. I didn't understand that, how she could be so accepting, when I still hadn't learned to accept my brother's fate of perpetual childhood.

  I crossed my arms, warding myself and reclaiming the conversation. "So, how exactly was it a metaphor?"

  "Well, she began her life with so much beautiful possibility and potential, and by the time she was diagnosed, it was very black and white, you know? Live and die."

  "Isn't that everybody's life?" I countered with a question I never intended to ask. I faltered with a swallow and felt immediately like an asshole. "Sorry."

  "Don't apologize," she said gently. "I like your vibe."

  The compliment was abrupt and unlike the others I’d received recently, and I did react to this one; I scoffed. My vibe? I didn't have a vibe. “Vibe” seemed like a descriptive word they slap on you in high school, tacked onto a clique or subculture. Goth vibe. Punk vibe. Jock vibe.

  I don’t have a vibe. I'm just me. Vibeless Blake.

  "Okay," I replied flatly. My tone should've thwarted her, should’ve ended the conversation, but instead, she smiled brightly as she asked, "Will you please stay for a drink?"

  "I really have to get home," I insisted, but my resolve was fading with the strength of her hope.

  "Just one, I promise. I have a poem I'd really like you to hear."

  "So, a drink and a poem?" I narrowed my eyes and looked toward the stairs I'd just come from. This seemed like a bad idea. Nothing good was ever going to come from this. I'd told the good doctor as much countless times, and now I was telling myself. This was bad, but she felt good, and I wondered if I could afford to let a little bit of that into my life. Just for tonight. Just to see how it felt to do something selfish, for myself.

  Just once.

  ***

  "Girls, I want you to meet Mister Blake Carson."

  Two blonde women wearing pastels and flashing pearly white teeth turned to face me. Their broad smiles wilted slightly at the sight of my exterior, and I'd be lying if I said the feeling wasn't painfully mutual. If I'd known I would be sharing a drink with the Stepford Wives, I might have declined.

  "Blake, these are my cousins and best friends, Regina and Nicole." Audrey pointed to each of the ladies, and with each introduction, they waved with waggling fingers.

  "Nice to meet you," I said, not yet sure if I was lying.

  Audrey's hand lifted and laid against my leather clad bicep. I glanced down to her smooth, porcelain skin and white-tipped fingernails, stark against the black backdrop of my jacket. The gesture was friendly, strictly platonic, but again, all I could wonder was, why the hell would she want to spend any time with me?

  "We're just going to the bar to grab a drink and then we'll be back. Can I get you girls a refill?"

  "Water for me," Nicole answered. She turned to Regina and drawled, "I'll pretend it's wine while you guys enjoy yourselves."

  "Tell David to keep his dick to himself and you won't get knocked up again," Regina quipped dryly before regarding Audrey. "What are you drinking?"

  "Oh, I don't really know ..." Audrey shrugged. "I was thinking maybe a, uh—"

  "Oh, come on, Audrey." Nicole snorted, lifting her almost-empty glass of water to her lips. "We all know you're just gonna order another Manhattan."

  Regina's gaze met mine. "She only started drinking like, a year ago, and all she knows to order is a Manhattan."

  Audrey laughed lightheartedly through her embarrassment, wearing her blush with pride. "I led a very sheltered life, okay?"

  "Jeez, it wasn't that sheltered. You went away to college, for crying out loud," Nicole shot back, eyes wide and glinting with laughter.

  "And I spent the whole time studying!" Audrey's defense was shrill and coated with laughter. I wasn't sure at what point I began to smile, but now I was grinning and really relaxing in the company of these women I'd just met.

  "What are you getting, Blake?" Regina asked.

  "Oh, uh," the sound of my name caught me off guard and I collected my thoughts, "I'll probably get a Sam Adams."

  "I've never had one of those," Audrey admitted, tipping her head in a way that made her look so innocent.

  "You haven't had one of anything," Nicole grumbled with an eye roll.

  "Except a Manhattan," Regina added pointedly.

  I smiled at Audrey's cousins before turning to her. "It's a lager. It's, uh ..." I shrugged. "It's a little crisper compared to beer." Audrey's cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink and I assessed, "You've never had beer before."

  "Winner, winner, chicken dinner," Regina answered, poking at Audrey's side. "Sam Adams sounds good. I'll have one of them."

  I walked with Audrey to the bar at the back of the club. She glanced at me with an apologetic glare and said, "Sorry about them."

  I waved it off. "They’re fine."

  The bartender sauntered over and asked, "What can I get ya?"

  Before Audrey could speak, I answered, "Two Sam Adams, a water, and a Man—"

  "Make that three Sam Adams," Audrey interrupted with an assertive lift of her head. When she caught my curious glance, she simply said, "It's a night for trying new things."

  I found it funny how little she knew about me and how out of left field this all was, and yet, she could utter a statement so true. Hell, this entire day had been about embracing situations outside of my comfort zone. It was nice, exciting even, and I was already dreading Monday morning, when my usual routine would commence.

  But that was over a day away. Right now, I was here, with the woman bearing the very tattoo that had haunted me for over a week. This was nothing more than a delightful coincidence, presented to me amidst the chaos of my life, and I made the choice to just enjoy it. Whatever it was, and whatever came from it. Because it was one night, that was all, and living my life for myself for one night wouldn't kill me.

  When the bartender brought over our drinks, I lifted a glass to her and said, "To trying new things."

  Audrey lifted hers warily, eyeing the lager within, as she clinked the glass against mine. "To trying new things."

  ***

  Audrey walked toward the mic without trepidation, owning the stage with light. I couldn't remember the poem she had read the week before—wasn't it something about a flower? A dandelion, maybe? It annoyed me now that I couldn't remember it in the same way I couldn't get that damn butterfly out of my head. But something whispering in my heart told me it was unlikely I'd forget what she was about to read tonight. This poem, whatever it was, would remind me forever of that one time I stepped outside the lines and permitted myself to live.

  "Hi, everyone," Audrey practically sang to the crowd. "I call this one New Skin."

  She cleared her throat and took the sheet of paper from her pocket. Then, she read.

  This skin is mine.

  A gift from my mot
her,

  My father,

  From God.

  One size fits me,

  And no one else.

  It has burned,

  It has paled,

  It has protected,

  And it has failed.

  It has grown,

  It has shrunk,

  But what have I done for it?

  This gift, my skin,

  What have I given,

  When it's given so much?

  Think, I think, think some more.

  The answer is obvious,

  The answer is her,

  The missing half to my duo.

  A little pain, a little time,

  And now, thanks to him,

  I am whole again,

  A patchworked person,

  Of new skin and old.

  The room murmured with approval and applause as Audrey bowed graciously and slipped from the stage. Nicole and Regina nodded, smiling with pride, as their hands clapped. I should've applauded her. I should've done something, anything, to express a hint of acknowledgment, yet I couldn't. I was stunned and startled, in complete awe over her ability to write something so profound about skin of all things. And then there was the mention of—I'm assuming here—me, and that shook my heart so much, I looked beyond the mention of God.

  She had written something about me. Was it possible that I'd haunted her as much as she'd inadvertently haunted me?

  And what did it mean if I had? My brain swarmed with the usual words—coincidence, accident, mistake—but my heart clung to something else, something that had me shaking my head and wanting to curse.

  I finished off my Sam Adams and stood from the table. Regina and Nicole turned to stare at me, and I smiled apologetically.

  "I really gotta get going," I said, and Audrey came to stand beside me.

  "Do you really need to leave now?" Worry tied her words together, her eyebrows tipped with concern. "Can we maybe—"

  "I really have to go," I repeated, firmer. "I gotta wake up early, but this was fun."

  I wished her cousins a good night before making my escape. I hurried through the club, even as a new reader went to the stage, but I wasn't caring about etiquette or manners. I cared only about getting away from a woman that I hardly knew, who was making me think things I had firmly set myself against years ago.