by Demi Vice
“Ummm—the skeleton spine tattoo on your spine? Wait, no, I take that back. The skeleton king on your shoulder?” Ahri let out a low grunt, knowing very well she was wrong.
I shook my head, stretched my neck and tapped my black rose.
“Really? The rose tattoo? But it’s so…different. All the other ones are dark and gloomy, and the rose is so…” she shook her head in disbelief. “What’s the story?”
“I’ll tell you the stories behind my tattoos if you tell me the stories behind your scars. Tit for tat.” I clicked my tongue.
“Tattoos are a choice. Scars are not,” she retorted.
“Some of my tattoos hide my scars, Ahrianna.” I leaned into her making sure she got a better look at the long scar that went across the side of my neck.
She thumbed my neck, feeling the difference between damaged and storyless flesh.
“Okay. Tit for tat.”
“Like I said before, I lived in the system. Four foster homes. Now, this lovely scar was done by Papa Schultz, the gun fanatic, house number three. Papa Schultz drank and smoked like the rest of them—minus Mama Baronski who was a saint—but worst of all, he had a short temper. I’m talking about a one-inch fuse. And unfortunately, at a young age, I had this special gift of pushing people over the edge with my humor or smartass remarks. I don’t remember what I said. I think I made a joke or something, but the next thing I knew he was pointing a revolver at me.”
Ahri’s lips parted as her hand tensed up on my rose. She thumbed my tattoo with softness and care as if she could fix the scar with her touch.
I wish I could do that to hers.
“Lucky for me, Papa Schultz liked to look at guns more than use them. When he fired the bullet, it missed and just barely nicked my neck. A few months passed, I turned thirteen, and the group home sent me to a new house where I reunited with Link at the Baker’s, house number four. Link heard rumors that I was dead, but I don’t die. Got more lives than a cat with a four-leaf clover taped to its head.” I snickered.
“The wound healed, and a year later I decided to get a tattoo. I was sick of seeing the scar on my neck every time I took a photo or looked in the mirror, so I went to an underground artist a few houses from the Baker’s and got it done. Of course, ten-year-old Link wanted to be involved in the process and stupid teenager Jack was like, ‘Yeah, sure pick anything you want.’ Massive mistake.”
I shook my head and rubbed my tattoo while Ahri’s soft laugh filled the laundromat.
“Worst of all? There was this sick-ass looking wolf drawing right next to the damn fucking flower. But noooo, Link was headstrong on the fucking rose. I couldn’t go back on my word though. I’d promised Link that he could choose, and I never break a promise.” I said, thinking about Fidget and his letter.
“Anyway, here we are now, nineteen years later. But, of course, this isn’t the original tattoo. The original was a shitty, shaky outline of a rose, but lucky for me I found Leo, the god at drawing flowers. His mom used to own a flower shop he later turned into his tattoo parlor. He grew up watching flowers bloom or some shit like that, so he knew a thing or two about drawing a rose.”
“I think it’s my favorite.” She smiled, eyeing the detail of my black rose.
“Mine too.” I grabbed Ahri’s hand and laced her finger with mine, feeling my body flood with a chill. “Now, it’s your turn.
Ahri let out a sharp exhale.
“Okay.” Ahri trailed her finger from her eyebrow down her cheek, following her scar. “Age thirteen. Luke and I were home alone while my sister was out trying to find our dad. Aurora told me to make dinner which was just a frozen pizza. Once it was cooked, I let Luke cut the pizza since he kept fucking asking over and over and over again. But he slipped off the chair and fell, cutting my cheek on the way down. I was lucky in a way since the knife barely missed my eye. Luke freaked out. I tried to stay calm, even though inside I had a panic attack. I played it off like it was nothing, washing the blood off, applying a shitty version of a band-aid—scotch tape and a cotton ball—then going back to the kitchen to eat some pizza. When Aurora came back, she stitched me up and took care of me.”
Goddammit, Fidget, you dumbass.
I shook my head.
It’s funny considering the kid was good with a knife after I showed him a thing or two from cutting vegetables. Would’ve shown Fidget more tricks, but the guards watched us like hawks.
“Your turn.” Ahri nudged her head.
“Where to start,” I hummed, drumming my finger on my abs. “How ‘bout you pick?”
Ahri pointed at the side of my oblique, above my hip. It was my worst scar of them all that was still visible even with the help of my tattoo. A black handprint, dripping black blood at the base of the hand. Inside the palm was a full set of canine teeth smiling at me.
“Ahhh…the story.” I rubbed the back of my neck and bit my lip. “It’s a little creepy and fucked up,” I warned her.
Ahri blinked slowly, full of curiosity and eagerness to hear my story.
“It was the beginning of April, fresh age of fifteen, and I was on my nightly walks around my broken-down neighborhood, not even the cops liked to visit. I remember that freezing night so clearly. The foul taste of a Camel cigarette, the disposable camera I used to take a photo of a pair of sneakers tangled in the telephone lines, and the flickering lights in the street I had to time just perfectly to get the right lighting.”
“In a far distance, I could hear the Friday night dogfights. It was a few blocks down where I lived at the Baker’s, and the owner of the house would make his pit bulls and other neighbor's dogs fight. They’d fight until they were wounded, crippled, or worse, dead. Only the fucked up of all who were fucked up went to watch.”
I took a deep breath and continued. “I hated those fucking fights. I hated the sounds of the dogs, screaming and growling, but worse I hated the sound of cheering from the people who were winning their bets. I hated where they fought, in a flimsy homemade cage like they were in the fucking MMA. And I hated how much blood was left on the snow or grass after the fights would end. I hated everything about it.”
I looked down my side, my flesh still dented and discolored even with the tattoo covering it.
“I was mid flash of a picture when I saw a dog at the end of the block. A massive gray pit bull, with no ears or tail. A dog with more scars than fur. A dog with more rage and fury then I’d ever seen any creature have. A dog who was ready to charge at me with the blood of his victims and drool on his snout. He was a beast. A monster I had never seen before.”
And I’ve seen a lot of monsters, I thought.
“I remember the way it ran toward me like I was the guy that forced him to fight. Like I was the guy who made him look and act the way he did. I ran as fast as I could in a part of the neighborhood I didn't know, but I wasn’t fast enough. My body smacked the frozen cement covered in ice and snow, my boot inside the dog's mouth as I tried to get away. My hands and chin skinned across the ground as the beast dragged me along until I kicked it in its face. I pissed him off, fueling him with fury and death.”
A chill went down my spine, leaving me frozen for a few seconds before I continued. “The dog bit my side, right under my opened jacket and I let out a bloody-murder-scene kind of scream that the whole neighborhood must’ve heard. I was trapped, unable to move, and I remember thinking, ‘This is how I die. This is how I die. With a beast who was forced to fight, sinking his teeth into my flesh. My blood, his victim’s blood, and his drool mixing together to kill me.’ The dog held me in a lock until he released my side and took another bite down again. This time I remember punching the dog, my hand dripping with blood, and after that? Everything went black.”
“Holy shit,” Ahri whispered. “What-what happened next?”
“This is the creepy part. I woke up four days later, lying shirtless on top of a kitchen table inside an abandoned house. I had stitches in my side, gauze wrapped around my waist, and an IV drip need
le in my arm while the bag was duct taped on the kitchen cabinet. My shirt and camera were to the counter along with a water bottle and a sandwich cookie snack with monkeys on it. Passatempo. Next to all of that was a ripped off newspaper section, the words ‘you,’ ‘owe,’ and ‘me’ circled in three different parts of the article. Then signed at the bottom margin was the word: Ceifador. I remember thinking, ‘This is the kind of shit a serial killer does,’ but this Ceifador, whoever he or she was, was my guardian angel. Even though the motherfucker stole my jacket.”
In his defense, the jacket had been Armani. In a way, I don’t blame him. It’s why I stole it in the first place.
“I ripped the IV out, ate the cookies, and went outside shirtless with gauze around my waist, blood seeping through, and a t-shirt that smelled like blood around my neck like a scarf. You couldn't pay me to try to pull my arms through the sleeves from how damaged I felt. I remember the walk home was godawful. I was at least five blocks away from my house, and I was bleeding out.”
“With each step I took, my body shook and bled. The steam in the air fogged my vision, making it harder to see. I finally made it home and passed out on the front steps, holding my side like it was about to spill out. I woke up a few hours later on the couch with Link hyperventilating and crying with our neighbor from a block down looking over my stitches. She was a nurse in training, and she said it was the best job she had ever seen. If it wasn’t for my guardian angel. I would have died.”
I paused.
“When I went back to my camera all the pictures were used. I unrolled the film, and there were photos of my wound. The before, during, and after, with a man’s hand working on my open bleeding side. The other images were of the abandoned house, except for the last one. It was a picture of a kid. A kid no older than ten. He was standing in front of a shattered mirror, hiding his face with my camera. Like a nurse he wore scrubs, white latex gloves, and white shoes.” I shook my head and looked at Ahri’s worried face as she swallowed. “Like I said it’s a fucked-up story.”
Ahri responded by biting the inside of her bottom lip.
“Ceifador,” I said. “Do you know what it means?”
Ahri shook her head.
“In Portuguese, it means Grim Reaper.” I paused. “Creepy and fucked up like promised. But it has a happy ending. I’m alive.”
“D-did you—ha-ave you—” she stammered. “Is that a true story?” Ahri’s asked in a tiny voice.
I nodded as honestly as I could.
“You almost died, Jack.” Ahri touched my side.
“Eh, almost. I’ve almost died more times than you can imagine, but here I am.” I chuckled, breaking the tense moment.
Ahri squeezed my hand and gave me a faint smile.
“Your turn.” I cocked my brow. “What about that straight-like-an-arrow scar on your back.”
“Seventeen. I got into an argument with my father. Most likely, I was telling him off like I always did. But he didn’t like what he heard—the truth. He got pissed and pushed me across the room. I don’t remember what I landed on, but I came out with a long deep scratch on my back and a new job for Aurora to fix me up.”
My chest felt as if someone took a seat on it, making it almost impossible to breathe. Something tells me I was going to have this feeling on repeat tonight.
“Was Aurora always fixing you up?”
She nodded. “She was studying to be a nurse before…” the sentence vanished in the air. “Aurora liked doing that kind of stuff. Or maybe it was because she was forced to like it. Luke and I always got hurt.”
I let out a soft laugh. “You were close to Luke, weren’t you?”
“I was. I was also close with my sister, but more with Luke. He was like me…stupid.” Ahri scratched the back of her head and smiled. But as fast as that dimple came, it left. She looked at my forearm and pointed at my sea Kraken tattoo. “What’s the story?”
“Age nine. The Morris’, house number two. I stayed there for only a year, but most of the time I was with Link until his foster parents kicked me out. I limited my time in the house as much as I could, and only went there to sleep in my bed. A fancy way of saying a lumpy old couch upstairs in the hallway.”
I pointed at seven tentacles, the biggest suction cups of the sea monster hiding my cigarette burns.
“The parents weren't too bad, I guess, but the kids were. Especially the oldest boy. I didn’t even care for his name, but I swear he was a fucking psychopath. When I was sleeping, he would use me as an ashtray or punching bag. Each time he hurt me, I would get more paranoid until it turned me into the worlds lightest sleeper. While other kids had a teddy bear to soothe their sleep. I had my pocket knife. When I did try to fight him back, he would beat the shit out of me, leaving me with more scars and cuts,” I said, pointing at the scars on my shoulder, chest, and ribs that were clearly exposed. I never had time to cover them up with tattoos.
Ahri touched my body, feeling the memories through my scars.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.”
I shrugged. “Nah, don’t be. The fucked-up thing about it all? If I were to do it all again, I wouldn’t change a damn thing.”
Ahri was visibly shocked that those words had left my lips. “Really?”
“It made me who I am and took me where I am today. So, I wouldn't change. A. Damn. Fucking. Thing.”
Ahri hummed and ran her hands down my forearm. “Why the sea monster Jack?”
I clenched my teeth, watching her as she gripped my forearm in her small hands and turned it around to see the whole tattoo.
God, Ahri was so beautiful…so fucking precious.
“The sea monster?” I licked my lips. “I would’ve been the best damn, motherfucking pirate of all time. Send me back hundreds of years ago, put me on a ship, and make me fight for my name, reputation, and riches. I would’ve ruled the seven seas. King Jack, they would’ve called me. Robbing, stealing, killing for my gold and so much more would be attached to the famous Jack name. But of course, I would bury my fucking treasures. No one, and I mean no one, would ever find them except for me.” I laughed.
“Isn’t there already a famous pirate named Jack?” she asked.
“Fuck if I care. I’m the only Jack in my books.”
We both laughed.
I rubbed Ahri's forearm. The three cigarette burns I sat the first night I met her. “Your turn,” I said, my whole-body tightening, preparing for Ahri’s story.
“I was ten-years-old, and like usual, I was angry with my dad. He’d wasted all his money on booze instead of buying food, and I snapped. I’d already been stealing a lot of money from the teachers or the students at school. I was sick of it. I went downstairs to the basement, opened all three full cases of Old Style, and chucked each bottle of beer on the cement wall. I flooded the basement with beer foam and glass, cursing my dad’s name.”
Ahri bit down on her teeth. “My dad was beyond pissed. He called me his favorite words, ‘worthless,’ ‘good-for-nothing,’ ‘waste of space,’ then he came at me with his fist. I swear, I thought I was going to die that day until my sister calmed him down. He always had a weak spot for Aurora—she was his favorite, She told him we would replace the beer which meant that I’d have to steal more cash. My dad agreed to that idea, but he still beat me, leaving me with scars.” Ahri pointed to a small scar under her chin and one on her collarbone. “When he thought the beating wasn’t enough, he took three cigarettes—one for each box I broke—and permanently reminded me what I should never forget.”
I sighed, rubbing her old burns.
Ahri was a fighter, that’s who she was. That’s who she’ll always be. And that’s why her small body had more reminders than Fidget had.
“Why didn’t you ask for help?”
Ahri scoffed. “I don’t ask for help. That’s not who I am. And say I did ask? Who would help? Scorch Side was filled with kids who had daddy issues. I was just another grain of sand in the desert. And if we’re being honest
, my dad was the vanilla part of my life. He got rage-level of angry a few times a year, and the only thing that mattered to me was that Aurora and Luke were safe. And they were.”
“But you were ten years old.” My eyebrows dropped, sorrow and tension squeezing my heart.
Ahri shrugged. “Could’ve been worse. My dad could’ve burned me for each bottle I shattered.”
“Where is he now? You’re father.” I gritted.
“Georgia? Alabama? I’m not sure. He ran away with some stripper when I was in jail.”
“What happened with Aurora and Luke?”
Ahri kicked her heels into the dryer. “Well, they tried to pay for rent on their own, but they were also saving for my bail. It was hard for them to pay for both, so they chose to move. They ended up moving in with my mom, her twin sister, and…him.” Ahri cleared her throat as she slowly shook her head.
Him?
Him as in the he in Fidget’s letter?
“A few more months passed, they got the money, and I got out around the time I turned nineteen.” Ahri’s voice got weaker and changed the topic quickly. “So-ummm-what about that tattoo?”
Linked Forever, a small tattoo on the right side of my chest that didn’t hide a scar.
“Simple. Linked as in Link. Forever as in forever. It’s a bromance kind of thing. He wanted me to remember him even when he was adopted. But I was never going to forget him. I had five other tattoos at the time, so it wasn’t a big deal to get a small one for him.” I chuckled and sucked on my tooth. “Although we made a bet. If I got a tattoo for him, he had to get a tattoo for me. Link was eleven when he got his first tattoo and I made sure it wasn't something he was going to regret. Just a small phrase along his bicep.”
Ahri’s face was full of curiosity. “What did the tattoo say?”
“Jacked forever.” I snorted a laugh. “It works both ways though. Say he’s jacked, then he can flex his muscles and show off—” I shut myself up, shaking my head. “It’s so fucking stupid. I know, but that was us. Even though we were four years apart, we got along in more ways than you can ever imagine. He was my brother—shit, he’s still my brother.” I smiled like an idiot to myself.