I don't know what to do. Maybe I'll just crawl into my bed and wait for him to never call me again.
* * * *
Ink
22 December - 6:43pm
I almost forgot about today's appointment. How silly would that have been? I made it two weeks ago, mostly out of spite, but when I got up this morning I was determined to get it done.
I spent all of yesterday hung over and moping. Dad kept checking on me - I think he's worried about me. He'd never say, though. He just kept an eye on me and then made me lasagne for dinner - my favourite. Since everything with Cody blew up, I've had a lot of lasagne dinners.
Today, I was determined not to let myself stay in that self-hugging pit. Instead, I spent the whole day at the tattoo parlour. I'm regretting it now - I can barely move, it hurts so much. And Dad has that look in his eye that says it's all my own fault and I won't be getting lasagne tonight. His sympathy is conditional on how self-inflicted my pain is, apparently.
I can't really blame him. He didn't approve of my first tattoo; I suppose I can't really expect him to approve of this one.
I got my first one a week after my mother left. I'd wanted one forever, but she was pretty firm about how she wanted her girls to look. Tattoos were not part of that vision.
Now that I think about it, that's why I hooked up with Bree and Tarisha in the first place; they were exactly the kinds of girls that my mother approved of. They were pretty and always nicely-turned-out. They liked hair and shoes and boys. They were going places, their careers lined up like bowling pins. And I was like that, back then, before Chastity died and our mother left, before I had to pick up the pieces they left behind.
Cody hadn't wanted me to get a tattoo, either. He liked the one I had well enough - a spiky little writhe of flames across my lower back - but whenever I talked about getting another one, he'd change the subject. He never said that he didn't like it; he just disapproved at me silently and that was enough. I did what he wanted because I wanted him.
But I don't have him any more and I'm so sick of living for everyone else. I don't care who disapproves; it's for me, and no-one else.
And just as soon as I can bear anything to touch my back again, I'm sure I'll be really glad I did it. It was supposed to be just a little thing. I wanted a bird, something winged and free. But I walked in there and saw this beautiful design of a bird rising, wings half-spread, and I knew it would look perfect across my shoulderblades. Then I got talking to Steve, my tattooist, and he suggested that I link it up to the tattoo on the small of my back, and… it sort of grew from there.
It seemed like such a good idea when we were working it out. It took hours to actually ink, though. Steve didn't mind - Mondays are quiet for him, he told me - and he worked right on through on it. But I had forgotten how much it hurt. It stings at first, and then there's the weird euphoria stage, and then it just burns, as if he was needling real fire under my skin. I thought I was going to pass out a couple of times. I almost asked him to stop and finish it another day, almost gave in to it. I must be some kind of wuss.
Getting home was the hardest part. I almost called Matt to come pick me up, but, well. Yes. I walked home, very very stiffly.
I'm wondering if it was a mistake, but it's a bit late now. I have to work tomorrow. I wonder if I'll be able to move at all. I can't wait to see it, see if it was worth all this.
* * * *
Looking forward
23 December - 7:16pm
Today was both better and worse than I expected. Christmas and new tattoos don't mix well, but with a few painkillers and a painted-on smile, you can face just about anything.
I realised halfway through the day that I still hadn't picked up Dad's present. I picked it out weeks ago, but I had to wait for a paycheque to come in, and then… well, my world exploded and it slipped my mind. And now it's Christmas in two days and I still don't have it. The hardware store was closed by the time I got there after work; I'll have to try tomorrow at lunchtime.
When I got home today, Dad was waiting for me with his concerned face on. It creeps out every now and then, usually when he's had a slow day at work and too much time to think. Not too many people buying cars right now, it seems; they're tending to go for cheaper presents this year.
It came over dinner: The Talk about My Future. What I'm going to do, I can't stay at a bookstore my whole life, come on Faithy, you have to do something better with yourself. You could be more than this.
I've heard it all before; he does this once every few months. So I've been at the bookstore for almost a year now. So this job is yet another in a string of crappy retail positions. So I'm smart enough to do something better.
I surprised him by having an answer for him. I surprised him by telling him that I'm angling for the supervisor position that's about to open up there. That I want to get management experience before I look at opening my own store.
My own little bookstore - one of those poky, kooky places that smells of old paper and newly-minted books - not one of the chain monstrosities. All mine - my own hours, my own work, my own weekendless weeks, my own crappy pay, my own name over the door. I love books , I love working with books, and I love people who love books. That's what I want to do with myself.
That shut him up for a while. Finally, he asked if I was sure that I wanted a bookstore. He might be a bit upset that I don't want to go into the car business and take over from him one day. That's what I took these retail jobs to get away from, so I could find my own thing. Now I've found it and I'm not going to let him guilt me into helping him at the yard again. Been there, done that. It's time for me now.
A girl can dream, right?
* * * *
Boom
24 December - 2:29pm
We've been attacked. I don't know what's happening. I don't know if it's just the city, or the state, or the country. I don't know if it's war, or terrorists, or something equally awful. It's all such a mess right now.
There was a bomb, a few hours ago. The central business district is falling down. I can't even think about how many people were hurt. Nothing is working - my phone is dead, there's no power anywhere. I only turned on the laptop to see if I could, and I can. There's no internet, though. Is the world still out there? Do they know?
Can't talk long. Just had to take a break, sit down for a while. This building keeps groaning - I don't like it. Wait, I hear someone. They need help. I'll be back.
# # # #
The Apocalypse Blog:
Book 1: End of the Old
Book 2: Rising
Book 3: Into the After
About the author:
Melanie Edmonds is a technical writer by trade and fiction writer by love. She has a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing, and has been writing since she was old enough to hold a pen. She writes primarily science and speculative fiction, and her published work includes web serials such as the Apocalypse Blog and Starwalker.
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