Dead Souls
Page 19
He knocked at the red door and it opened while he stood uneasily as people passed by, their dark eyes slanting curious looks at him. Tsukoi was as he remembered him, pretty faced and slender, someone Don normally would have pushed down. The man’s black hair fell forward as he bowed his head and Don stepped in, unsure as to whether the nod was mocking or welcoming.
The door opened to a long hallway, squares of light from high set windows barely denting the shadows. Tsukoi stepped in front of Don after closing the door, taking the lead. His shirt rode up, exposing his back and colour glittered on his pale skin, rising from the waistband of his jeans to curve towards his spine.
The tattoo was of hues found between slices of a rainbow and parts nearly shimmered as the man walked. A pair of koi danced through stylized waves, bubbles and cherry blossoms floating on the sheer surface of painted skin. The tattoo… moved, breathing as if it had a life of its own and the Asian only served to carry it. Each scale of the fish fanned out, darker lines of colour scalloping every edge. Dappled with white and orange gold, the koi swam amid wrinkled folds of water, curls of fins splashing up to nudge away pink petals fallen down from an unseen tree above.
Don wanted to touch it…very badly.
This was what he ached for; wearing something that exquisite on his skin would make him someone…someone to be reckoned with.
“That’s nice.” His voice came out breathy, like a girl’s and Don cleared his throat, hearing himself echoing in his ears. “Who did it?”
“My father.” He left it at that, no other mention of the art or his family. Disappointed, Don followed Tsukoi closely, nearly slamming into him when the artist stopped abruptly at an open door. “In here. We can figure out what you want.”
“I need something large. On my back and over my arms and legs.” Don’s eyes adjusted to the brighter light in the small room. Its walls were devoid of any decoration, a plain vanilla cream colour and the wooden floor was dull, dark wood run rough in spots from furniture legs. A long massage table lay in the centre, its folding sides flat and at the ready. Nearby, a stool on casters abutted a low table, an electrical cord from the tattoo machine under it stretching over to the outlet in a sinuous black trail. “I want it to be memorable. I want it to look like… important.”
“Something like that is expensive. A life of work.” Tsukoi played with a bottle of unopened red, swirling the ink around the plastic container. “Do you think you can pay that price?”
“I’ll pay.” Don thought of how much spare money he had at the end of each pay check. He’d have to play fast and loose with a few things while he had the word done but it was something he was willing to sacrifice for. “I want this. I don’t care what it costs. Do you want money up front?”
“You don’t pay me until we’re finished. It will take a long time,” The Asian nodded thoughtfully then his eyes flicked up, catching Don in their amber. “And it will have to be something that tells a story. Something that goes on a man’s entire body should be complete. It should be a legend.”
“Good,” Don replied. “Because I want to be one.”
****
It hurt.
There was no other word for the pain other than…hurt.
The thin black lines Tsukoi sketched over his right arm would take an eternity to fill in, Don knew that in his bones. He hissed and spat when the needle touched him for the first time and then wept when the buzzing grew to a climatic sting on the bone of his shoulder. More than once, he wanted to beg the man to stop but the steady grind of Tsukoi’s concentration didn’t seem like something he would dare to interrupt. Especially as the Asian swept back to refill his needle tips and turned back to daub away the blood pouring from Don’s flesh.
His bare fingers stretched and played with his living canvas, seemingly immune to the sounds of displeasure pouring from Don’s throat. Another burning touch came and then Don’s nerves jumped, arcing towards the digging steel. The pain worked down from his skin and into his marrow until he felt sure it would crack apart and spill into his blood.
“Shouldn’t you…be wearing gloves?” He remembered asking at one point, needing to talk to ease the silky, thick saliva in his mouth.
“I need to feel you under me. If I wear gloves, I can’t feel you enough.” Tsukoi stopped and angled his stare through the jet black hair fringe covering his eyes. “Do you want me to stop? You can get someone else to do this for you.”
“No,” Don said, shaking his head. “I want you to do this.” Tsukoi didn’t look convinced, giving Don a cocked eyebrow and a beestung pout that wouldn’t look out of place on one of the Japanese school girls Don lusted after. “Please.”
That one word was enough to bring the needles back down and Don bit the inside of his cheek to keep his screams in.
****
The tattoo itched and burned. Don rubbed at the scratchy fabric of his work shirt, hoping to ease the discomfort. The lotion Tsukoi gave him made the ache of his nerves subside for a few hours but then the crawling sensation was back in full force. He didn’t put it on while at work because the green slime clung to everything but the stunning hues beneath the foamy gel were breathtaking. He could only dream of when the ink spread over his whole body.
Climbing the stairs to the apartment he shared with his mother, Don stopped at the third floor landing, irritated at the clutter blocking his path. Old Virgil sat on a metal chair amid the mess, his fingers marbled from cigarette smoke. The bent man once terrified Don, his shape menacing when he walked by and the hall shook with his footsteps. Ten years and a cancer later, the monster now huddled in his own doorway, spitting out chew or dropping almost empty cans of protein drinks that leaked onto the hall’s industrial linoleum.
“Went down to get yourself some poon?” Virgil burbled, spit flecking his mouth. “You sure spending a lot of time with those gooks, boy. Bringing your mama home some of your banana babies to raise?”
The words didn’t get to him, not like he’d thought they would. Hell, he’d said the same thing to a friend of his once when the guy sniffed around one of the FOB girls in their high school but Virgil’s words…cheapened him, made what he was doing for himself…less.
Don wasn’t certain what drove him on but one thing was for certain, bathing in Virgil’s hot blood soothed his inked skin a lot more than Tsukoi’s salve.
****
His back was on fire. If not for the constant buzz and whine of the machine working over his body, he could swear Tsukoi instead dripped acid on him from the head of a pin. The singing needles sang bass when the other man worked in a length of black in, going over the same spot until he was satisfied with its saturation.
Reaching up, Don grabbed what he could to steady himself, letting his fingers dig down deep into Tsukoi’s calf. Panting, he fought the waves of sick coming over him and inhaled sharply when the needles stopped their descent down his spine.
“Let go of my leg,” Tsukoi said, his voice a dark purr.
“You’re hurting me.” The solidness of the other man’s leg felt good under his hand and Don was reluctant to withdraw. With Tsukoi under his hand, the pain lessened and he was anchored to something other than himself.
“You asked me to hurt you,” He said softly, still under the throb of Don’s palm. “Remember you asked for this. You’re the one in control. I am only giving it to you because you asked for it.”
Don let go and the needles began again, fiercer and deeper. His skin wept blood but his eyes were dry. He’d take what Tsukoi gave him without complaint. He would bleed out before he fed the pain any more of his whimpers.
****
She walked by him. Every night the blond woman he saw on the BART looked through him and stepped away as if Don were nothing. After a few weeks, he’d taken to wearing a tank top, showing off the exquisite ink he’d bled for but she continued to pass through his life as if he were nothing.
One day she brushed up against his shoulder and flicked a glance at his face before turni
ng away, not before he spotted the sourness in her mouth and eyes.
No matter, Don thought as he worked a knife through the tendons of her shoulders, popping the joints as her screams bounced against the underpass, unheard over the Bay traffic. He’d make certain that she saw him. He would be the last person her cold blue eyes would ever see.
Catching her limp body up, he held her as the life gushed out of her chest, heart pumping to a furious beat as it tried to resuscitate its dying host. An upturned hubcap from an old Pontiac gave him the receptacle he needed to catch her fluids. His back hurt too much and reaching around to smooth ointment only crinkled the skin, rumpling the healing ink.
He’d found creased skin on newly inked tattoos made for unsightly lines that had to be filled in and Tsukoi had already hissed at a line in the dragon claw reaching over his ribs. That was not an experience he wanted again.
Don’s fingers shook as he held them up to the gibbous moon. Her life dripped from his hand, inky red and lush. Her mouth held nothing for him now. It lay open and slack, her prettiness faded under his knife. Bringing his fingers to his lips, he sucked at them, pulling her into his body.
He spent himself washing with her blood, watching her limbs sink down into the cold blackness of the Bay.
****
Tsukoi was waiting for him outside the next time he came. Smoke wafted around the man’s face, an ethereal fog that reminded Don of the mists on Alcatraz. Exhaling out, the Asian released a clove-scented ring, following it up with his eyes until it was lost in the pearled dimness of a lit San Francisco night.
“You’re here too soon,” He said, snubbing the butt out against the wall before flicking it into a street grate. “You should take more time. This kind of thing should take years to finish and you’re rushing your life.”
“I feel like I’m not…complete,” Don leaned against the wall besides Tsukoi, catching a whiff of the man’s spiced breath. “I want to feel it on me. It’s like I can’t do anything but think about how it is going to be when I’m done…when you’re done.”
“Come on then,” Tsukoi replied softly, opening the door to let Don in. “Let’s get to work.”
****
He screamed this time. Don was ashamed to hear his own shrieks echo against the wall but when Tsukoi stretched his hand over the inside of his thigh and began to work close the fold of his leg, he nearly blacked out with the agony crawling with hooked talons into his tender nerves.
The story was told in inches, a brutal tale of a dragon and a man fighting over a treasure they’d die before having. Tsukoi murmured as he worked, soft rolling streams of Japanese that caught on Don’s imagination until he dreamed in a language he didn’t understand. Now came a battle of demons and a woman turned oni, the hannya Tsukoi told him. The long-nosed mask stretched on his thigh, turning it blue before it ran crimson as he bled out profusely, the thin skin giving in to the rapidly moving steel tips.
Don struggled for something to distract himself from fierce visage forming on his thigh. Gasping when the machine’s clicking arm caught on a leg hair and yanked it free from its roots, Don’s eyes grew blurry and he leaned forward, placing his hand on Tsukoi’s shoulder.
“God, just talk or something.” Don leaned back, letting his fingers trail off of the man’s arm and flopping onto the padded table. “Get my mind off of this shit. Talk about anything. Chicks. Your dad. Anything.”
The needles stopped singing, a blurring lull in the room but the pain increased as if the skin had memory of the tips moving in and out, leaving behind minute drops of ink and punctured welts. Canting his head, Tsukoi brushed his bloodied fingers through his hair, moving it off of his face.
Slowly, the Asian eased his lean body moving along Don’s length until their faces were nearly touching and he shuddered at the coldness of Tsukoi’s full mouth. The man’s whisper tickled his cheek, hot and rolling like the pin tips he wielded.
“I am nothing to you but ink and pain, remember?” Tsukoi’s lips hovered at the plump of Don’s ear. He filled Don’s world, until nothing existed but the ache along his thighs and the ivory and black blend of Tsukoi’s features. “You are nothing to me but skin, something to work on. You come here because I can give this to you and I do this because you come for it. There is nothing else between us.”
He lay there, mute as Tsukoi began again, steadily hooking ink under Don’s pale, stretched skin. The pain rushed him anew, thickening in his mouth until all Don could taste was the sickly sweetness of his fear and the gurgle of bile rising from his throat.
When he’s done, Don thought, I’m going to have him on me. Just like the others.
****
Nothing worked like it was supposed to. No matter how much he smeared blood over the length of his thigh, the ink burned before the liquid dried. Things were moving under his skin, Don was sure of it. Tsukoi had placed something inside of him that was hungry, ravenously evil and thirsty. It left trails of ache as it swam through his body, bringing pinpricks of agony along its wake.
His lashes were smarting and the back of his eyeballs were bleeding out. Don could feel the drip-drip-drip of his fluids leaking into the bowl of his skull.
There was a sea of blood washing over the kitchen floor, a cloud of flies swarming in its rich metallic scent. He stared down at his mother’s broken form, her fingers crooked and twisted around a pencil. She’d fallen where he flung her, lifeless when her strings were cut from her.
It had been so easy to reach into her and yank her life out of her chest, digging in with a long kitchen knife she’d purchased from a shopping network she watched. Red splatters filled in the circles of her number puzzles, drops from the slice on her arm providing answers that she never seemed able to figure out. Some of the pages were rubbed through from her eraser, little holes of her stupidity.
Much like the ones dimpling her torso and arms.
Maybe, he needed the place he’d come from, Don reasoned, moving to her cooling flesh. It would stiffen then soften again, her body’s spoils flushing from the relaxed orifices once it realised its death. Amid the gush, he excavated the worn floppy organ lying under her belly. Its intense redness was a surprise then the oddness of its shape struck him.
“Will it taste like bunny too, Ma?” He nudged her leg, avoiding the sharp nails on her stubby toes. Turning on the burner, Don placed it into the cast iron skillet they left on the stove and waited for his dinner to sizzle.
****
“I want it finished,” Don said to Tsukoi when he opened the door.
Sheets of rain covered the city, obscuring buildings that were mere feet away. Don’s jeans were soaked to the knee, the denim dripping water as he walked in. The squelch of his sneakers echoed in the hallway, its length now a dank grey from the watery light of its windows.
The room was as they’d left it, the machine lying inert and rows of ink bottles lining the cabriolet. Tsukoi waited for him, barefoot and lithe, his face an unreadable mask as Don stripped off his shirt, preparing himself for the final stretch of blank skin to be filled in, the curve of the dragon across his shoulder blades.
He knew the story by now, etched into his body and under his skin. He carried the legend of a warrior and the tatsu discovering a phoenix’s treasure, battling one another over the smallest golden coin bearing the likeness of a beautiful woman. Armies of demons warred down his belly and across his thighs, rousted from the hells by a scorned princess, the warrior’s former beloved. The roll of Tsukoi’s voice accompanied each prick and dot of ink and Don flexed his broad shoulders, rippling the creatures fleeing the epic battle as the dragon descended from the heavens.
“You don’t have to do this now,” Tsukoi said, quietly. “You should have more time. At least to…be who you need to be before it is completed.”
“No,” Don hooked his leg up over the edge of the table and slid onto his belly, tucking his arms under his chin. “I won’t be complete until it is.”
“No,” He whispered as he
took up the machine, setting the safety off. “You won’t be.”
****
Don woke to find himself on his back, a pressing weight pushing down on his throat. Shining lights seared his eyes and he blinked, trying to find himself surcease from their burning glare. Grunting, he lifted his head and gasped helplessly when all he did was flop his head to the side. His limbs were unresponsive and the crawl of his tattoo burned distantly in the back of his brain.
Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong.
“Good, you’re awake,” Tsukoi stepped out of the light, his pretty face swimming into view. The Asian brushed at Don’s forehead then down over his face, resting his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “It’s better when you’re awake.”
“Whhaaa?” His tongue didn’t move and Don choked as the fleshy tube slithered back down his throat. Alarmed, he fought to regain control of the limp muscle but it merely folded back over and closed off the airway tighter. Tsukoi nodded, calm and knowing, before sliding his fingers into Don’s mouth, pulling out his tongue before he lost consciousness.
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen that happen before. I won’t let you go like that,” He said, fitting a small white waffle ball into Don’s mouth, closing his jaw over its spongy form. It trapped his tongue against his teeth, cutting down into the muscle.