Placing my bag close by, my hands cradle either side of my head, my elbows balancing on my crisscrossed legs, as I ride the emotion rattling around inside me. Six years I avoided coming home, and in one interaction with family, I'm facing the fact that I'd gone about this all wrong.
If I’d stayed, Mia and I might have kept the close twin relationship we’d once had. At the very least, I could have supported her through the rest of her college years if I’d just stayed. My hands dig into my scalp, and the roots of my hair strain as I grip them in my fist. There would be less pain and anger behind her gaze, but I took that from us. My sister and I are never one to give second chances without good cause. If we are still alike in the regard of second chances, it will be a long way back into her good graces.
Then, the way mom held me, as if everything that happened is merely the past, and she no longer views me as the villain’s accomplice. Could I have helped her heal faster, had her back sooner, if I’d been around, and not run like a coward?
“Excuse me, sir?” A deep baritone calls out to my right.
I look up. The sun is at the man’s back, and it’s impossible to see his face. Shielding my eyes, his features come into focus.
“Officer,” I say back, looking into his aged face.
He gestures around with his hand and looks towards the nearest houses. “You live around here?”
I shake my head, but before I open my mouth to respond, he’s onto the next inquiry.
“Where are you from?”
“Originally from here, but a resident of California for the past six years. I’m here visiting family.”
“If you need a ride, I can give you one as long as it’s on this side of town.”
“That's not necessary.”
“It is, actually. We’ve received a call about your loitering. This neighborhood is quiet, and you’re making the residents unsettled.” He scrutinizes me more intensely than before, taking in my tattoos with renewed interest. “You can’t stay here.”
“My family, they live right across the street. So, I’m where I need to be.” I flick the hand that’s not shielding my eyes at Mia’s house.
His eyes drift over, squint, and then widen. He pulls out a notepad in his back pocket and flips it open. My brows start to knit when his mouth twists into a frown, and he looks between me and the paper. After another second, he flips it back closed and slips it back in his pocket. “Don’t know how to tell you this son, but the people in that house are the ones that called us.”
My own mouth twists this time as I look across the street. Of course, she did. The house seems quiet, all but for the curve of the curtain in the living room window. She’s watching this, enjoying it, and I bet she’s laughing behind her hand. She’s won this round, but in the end, I’m determined to win back my place in their lives.
“Is your offer still good for a ride?” I look back at the officer.
“Depends where you’re headed. Otherwise, I’ll find you a car service.”
It’s been a few years, but thinking of the surrounding area, I know where I’d be welcome, and it’s a hell of a lot closer than a hotel. “Sweet Hell.”
He nodded when I thought I’d have to explain, but he must know this town like he’d lived here his whole life, and he probably did. Not many that live here leave.
I get to my feet with my bag in tow, I freeze when his hand comes up, and his hand rests on his belt over the top of his gun.
My hands come up in surrender in front of me. “Whoa!”
“Sir, drop the bag!”
Slowly I do as he says. When his hand comes up, it’s with the gun, and the other cradles it. “Don’t move.”
My brows knit as he skirts the edge of me as if I’m about to strike like a venomous snake. His hand comes toward me, and it takes everything to lock my muscles as he grabs my holster and the gun I bought first thing when arriving in Georgia.
He slams them on the roof of his car and puts his own away. He comes around me, and his grip is stronger than I expect when he puts me in cuffs, reading me my Miranda rights.
“What you're doing is illegal,” I say without emotion.
“It’s for my protection. My partner died over a routine check like this, and I am not about to follow his example.”
I’ve lost the amount of time I have been sitting in the back of his car waiting for confirmation my permit is valid. He’s going to find I am cleared to conceal carry in thirty-eight states, including Georgia.
“Sorry about your partner.”
“Me too.” He says off-hand as he types something else in his computer.
Trying to get comfortable in the back of a patrol car with handcuffs is impossible. My shoulders are aching, and my wrists tired of twisting into the only four positions they're allowed.
“Look, man...”
“Robertt.”
“Fine, Robertt, are the handcuffs necessary? I’m not a threat.”
“Not taking the chance, plus I’m nearly done.”
“Done? With what?”
“My paperwork for this shift. This was a nice break.” He adjusts in his seat and puts the car in drive.
“You’ve got to be shitting me…”
In the rearview mirror, I see his smirk. “I’m too close to retirement to play by the rules. Plus, don’t think I forgot you and your sister used to live up on Hitchens when I started out.”
I’d been right, as Robertt, with two tt’s, drives us; reveals he’s lived here his whole life. Nice guy, but he still made me ride in the back of the car like a perp with the handcuffs on. Apparently, it only took ten minutes to verify my claim, but my sister and I played a prank on him when he started to patrol on our street. Some firecrackers that we slid under his car, and I remember like it was yesterday. This is what he calls some harmless payback.
Before he leaves, he says that he hopes he’ll never see me again. I, too, wish that. What a welcome home it's been; I can only hope it gets better from here.
It is getting dark, the sun is close to its horizon, but this place will be open even after it goes down. The warm glow of their lights highlighting the sidewalk from the entrance, a temptation in itself for the mood I’m in. The same mood I’d been in the first time I came to stand in front of Sweet Hell Ink’s door. I’m lost and unsure of my place.
After my father died, I felt lost, but even more so six months afterward. I’d lost my scholarship, let the school drop me because I felt like my family needed me at home. That’s what I had thought until hearing my mother's accusation and watching her fall apart in front of me at the hospital.
Watching her being sedated, seeing the fight drain from her eyes as they glossed over, not only took something from her but stripped me of something too. I couldn’t protect her. I’d been tricking myself into believing that my presence every day had helped. But it was me she blamed after all, and that cemented my own fears. Feeling more out of control than I’d been in my life up to that point, I bypassed my car in the hospital parking lot and ended up walking aimlessly, hoping to clear my mind. Maybe even in an attempt to escape from my reality for a while.
Being the safe haven it was then; it isn’t a surprise I end up here again. The little bell above my head jingles as I walk through the door.
There’s something about tattoo shops that feel like home. I’ve spent so much time within them, but nothing compares to being back in Sweet Hell.
The familiar smell of ink reminds me of fresh cut paper. Ink, never able to escape the association, hits my nose first. Second, the mingle or euphoric anticipation or nervous hesitation charging the air, making my heart beat faster for a different reason. It’s the only place that my heart races from excitement.
The smile that accompanies me to these places freezes on my face as Emma appears in my mind. Nothing could touch me here, in my element, my escape, and yet she's stamping her mark on something that should be separate. The joy abates, and all I can feel are her fingers gliding over my chest, around the ed
ges of my tattoos, burning herself deeper into me.
“Liam?”
My head surfaces from my thoughts at hearing my name. I was so far into my head that I didn’t realize I’d found a seat against the expanse of windows by the front door.
Riley walks towards me, his eyes squinting, taking in my features as I take in his. He’s the same: tall, that floppy hair, glasses in front of his dark eyes, and the only tattoo artist I’ve ever known not to have a single tattoo.
“Holy shit on a shingle, it is you!” He comes around the counter. I hold out a hand for him to shake, but he pulls me out of my chair and embraces me. He pats me on the back that reverberates in my chest. He pulls back and holds me at arm’s length. He starts to take in the skin he can see that no longer is a clear canvas, and his brows crease over his glasses. His eyes meet mine. “You’ve been busy.”
I haven’t said a single word to him yet, and he’s not giving me a chance now.
“Kitty! Mark me busy until otherwise told, I have a reunion and a free hand that will take it up.”
The stunning blonde behind the counter raises an eyebrow. “Ri, I’m right here. No need to shout.” She blows a bubble from her gum and allows that to be her reaction before looking down again at whatever she's doing.
He twists, throws an arm over my shoulders, and we are moving onto the studio floor. “How’s the tattoo I gave you? You’ve gotten more since I’ve seen you. You remember which one I did?”
“It’s good to see you, Riley. How’ve you been?”
“Better than you. You’re as pale as if you’ve seen ghosts again.” That stops him mid-stride and locks me into a stare. “Did something happen? Is your mom…”
I shake my head. “It’s nothing like that. I got mixed up with a girl….” I try to move past him, but his eyes grow wider than saucer plates, and he waves his hands like a lunatic. We’ve captured all the attention in this little tattoo parlor.
“Woah! Woah, back your shit up and tell me all about it.”
“Can we…” I point to his station. I grimace at the eavesdroppers, and he follows my line of sight.
“Oh, yeah, sure.”
I follow as we make it to his station against the far wall.
After he takes his seat, he gestures for me to lay on the bench as if this were therapy, and I, his patient. Honestly, that description is spot on for what happened last time. I opt for sitting.
He eyes me for a second, but when I say nothing, he pushes his glasses up his nose. “Tell me everything. But tell me while you take your shirt off, I need to check my tattoo.”
Sighing, I grip the back of my shirt and pull until it’s all the way over my head. Placing it on the floor with my bag, Riley’s hands are there testing the skin on my chest before it lands.
“The colors are strong for its age. You’ve done a good job taking care of it.” The skull in the middle of two Japanese-style red chrysanthemums in shades of red and black holds the most significance over the rest. A memorial for my father and what I lost with my mom.
He looks up at me. “You’re not getting out of telling me about this girl. Start talking.”
Sighing again, I grab the back of my neck and look at the ceiling. “Where do I start…” The question is to myself, but he answers.
“At the beginning seems the logical decision.”
“Smartass.” Straightening my neck, my hand drops to the table. “It’s so twisted and messed up.”
“The stories worth telling always are.”
There are four different tattoo shops in the area, and it's no coincidence that I asked to be dropped off here. Riley listened to every sorted detail of my father's passing and my mother's realization. He is my priest.
Resigning, I start to talk.
He leans away and grabs the nearest scrap paper, not caring that it has ink splotches on it and the pen that sits balanced behind one ear. The pencil flies as I recall our time together. As I do, I let my eyes wander around the room. It looks exactly the same. It’s intense black naked walls, cherry red furniture, and hardwood flooring, and space dividers make it simple yet boldly unique. Their logo uses the same deep colors. It makes me think of forbidden pleasures and deep secrets.
When I look back, I realize that it must have been a few minutes since Riley stopped drawing. His glasses balanced on the bottom slope of his nose, and he peers over them at me. His dark eyes seeing through me as if his vision is twenty-twenty.
“Dude, don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” He straightens and pushes his glasses back up his nose.
Like you feel sorry for me. Like I’m as lost as I feel, without direction or hope to find my way back to who I was before her.
Looking away from his gaze, I grab the paper from the bench that he’d been drawing on. The feel of paper rough on my fingers, and I realize it’s a scrap of commercial-grade paper towel that comes in those huge rolls. He didn’t even stop to get a decent piece of paper to draw on.
It's a tarot card titled the lovers in bold script. But not like any card I’ve ever seen. Skeletons in a tight embrace. A shorter one under the taller one’s head as it cradles the small skull against its ribs. There's a storm in the clouds above their heads, the edges of the card battered and a little torn.
“How about right here?” His finger taps on the inner part of my bicep.
“Won’t that placement interfere with the watch?” I run my hand over the massive pocket watch draped on my shoulder. There's a blade running through it, a death moth resting there, defiance in the spread of its wings. It was well done and one of my favorites from a trip I took to New Orleans.
“That depends.”
“On…”
“When you talk about Emma, you come alive. This is how you view death.” He rolls his eyes, and his fingers tap the tattoo. “The ticking of the clock and death waiting patiently to collect you. I can’t think of a better place to remind you that there’s more to life than living in the shadows…” He leaves it open on purpose, forcing me to choose.
Despite how she left, I wouldn’t shove Emma back where I keep my darkest views on the world. Her memory would be eaten alive, shrouded in pain and loss. Yes, she caused me pain and loss. Yet it felt different; she is different. When she crosses my mind, it’s so acute that it’s hard to breathe, but she is the light, the beacon I can’t snuff out, even in my mind. More good came from knowing her than bad.
When I say nothing, he starts in on me again. “Look, I know you’ve been through a bunch of heavy shit in your life. But isn’t it about damn time there be a little of what's good about life? You’ve become a Greek tragedy.” He looks over some of the tattoos he can see and then back to my face. His features show resolve. “Her leaving you sucks, but she gave you something you didn't have before. Hope that there’s still good even if it’s brief.”
“Let’s make room for her.”
His nod is confident as if he knew that’s what I would say all along, and without another word, he walks into the back. He’ll be tracing it on transfer paper and be back with it for placement.
As I sit waiting, I consider how easy the decision to go through with this has been. Even if I don't see her again, the thought of that possibility cuts deep; I still know forgetting is not an option. Riley is right. Alive is what I felt.
There’s a prickle on the back of my neck, and I turn to look behind me—the cheeks of the receptionist blush before she ducks her head. Before I can consider my reaction, Riley is back and placing the paper on my arm.
Riley is one of the best tattoo artists I know, and it didn't take him a second try to find the best placement for it amongst its neighbors. While he works, dipping the tattoo gun in the ink caps, then to my skin, we talk about main events since we’ve seen each other.
He’s now married to a nice girl, a baker on the same strip. He’s no longer living with his overbearing mom because he now owns Sweet Hell. The owner passed away, and he jumped on the opportunity. The sh
op is the most popular in town.
The hour goes quickly, yet I didn’t contribute much to the conversation being I haven’t done much. I wished this distraction would last, but Emma’s tattoo is the size of a playing card, and with it being only black and white, it's over quick.
“We’re not guaranteed happiness, Liam. That’s a fact you know all too well, but you know what I think?” He rubs my tattoo down with a soapy solution, and the extra ink that failed to sink in washes away.
“What’s that?”
“Sounds like you need to get your shit together to be worthy of this girl because she has given you reason to believe that it’s possible.”
“You’re starting to sound like a sappy book of poetry.” I jab. The quick retort, meant to be funny, only clings to her memory.
He looks at me over his glasses. “You know what they say the meaning of an upper arm tattoo is?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “It signifies strength and commitment towards a goal. You place it there to strive for the purpose and be reminded of it. Consider it my gift to you.”
“You planned this to be in a place I couldn’t ignore.” Not a question, but he nods his head.
“You deserve to be happy, Liam. You need a reminder of that every day.” He taps the tattoo before turning to his workstation to grab the plastic and Vaseline.
“Promise that it won’t be another six years until you come to see me again.”
“Promise.” Holding out a hand, he grasps it, and we say a quick goodbye.
The woman at the counter looks up and smiles.
"Kitty, right?"
"Yep."
"My tattoo by Riley is done." I pull my arm from my side to show her the piece.
Nodding, she goes through the papers on her desk. Her face twists when she finds the sketch with a price scribbled next to it. Riley and I didn’t negotiate one, but he’s only ever been fair.
“Um, one sec.” She leaves me staring after her as she walks to his station. I watch in bemusement as they talk with their hands back and forth with one another. Eventually, she comes back shaking her head.
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