Seven Years of Bad Luck

by J. L. Mac

  But I had already made the deal and I was a woman of my word. I would just have to be careful about what I said so Cheyenne wouldn’t feel betrayed or over exposed. I would never intentionally hurt my friend and I knew there were parts of her life ^ said she simply didn’t like to talk about and I respected that.

  “I’m ready when you are,” Tucker said as I settled across the leather upholstered table face down, only my arms concealing my bare breasts before the table shielded me. Luckily, Tucker was nice enough to pull a privacy screen in front of his work station at the rear of the parlor. It successfully provided me with protection from prying eyes.

  “Okay, let’s do this.” My breath was thick with trepidation as it sputtered in and out of my lungs unevenly.

  Don’t back out Kat. This is important. You promised yourself.

  Tucker must have noticed my uneasiness, because he paused to reassure my nerves while he prepared his tray of supplies.

  “Don’t worry. You’re going to love it once it’s done. We’re only doing the outline today, then we’ll let your skin heal before we do another session.” His voice was reassuring and it did the trick to calm my nerves.

  Well Kat, this is your first one. You chose a hell of a tattoo. Go big or go home, right?

  I made myself comfortable and tried to relax. Tucker sat beside the table, and with one quick flick of his foot, he pressed down on the pedal that operated the tattoo machine. It buzzed so loudly it startled me at first, but the vibrating noise enveloped my ears and my body. A sense of fulfillment and atonement filled me all at once with the precise thrust of the needle penetrating my skin at a rapid pace.

  The burning sensation that raced across my flesh was painful, and it reminded me of the pain I had endured over the past seven years. The pain I felt from the tattoo machine that was humming steadily in my ear was a discomfort that I embraced wholly and held tightly to.

  With each passing stroke that drew blood and permanently marked my flesh with ink, I was reminded that I was alive, and free to finally reclaim my heart and soul from the icy grips of despair and loss. Drastic measures to feel alive? Perhaps. Was it necessary? Absolutely.

  Knowing that the ink on my skin would be there forever would provide me with a permanent reminder of what I had done to myself and what I had allowed someone else to do to me. I hoped that having it there would keep me away from ever repeating history. Above the lower portion of the tattoo that represented my past would be the part that represented my future and what I had hoped to be.

  “Gonna tell me the story behind this?” I could tell Tucker was curious about the unique design that he was skillfully applying to my skin. It spread top to bottom from my shoulders down to just barely above my waistband. The entire thing was massive, yet unique and intriguing.

  “I don’ c> riguit mind telling you the story.”

  He sat silent while steadily creating the masterpiece on my back. “I was married once before. So was Cheyenne. We both managed to pick real winners in the men we willingly devoted so much of ourselves to. They never deserved anything from either of us.” I took in a deep breath while willing myself to keep talking. I told him about all the terrible things that I had seen and dealt with during my seven year marriage to Aidan-everything from the child I had lost, to the lonely birthdays, to the painful infidelity. I explained to him who I used to be and who I had ended up being. “So, the silhouetted woman on the lower half of my back is me. Was me, still somewhat is me. She has empty eyes to show her sadness. Her skin is dull and lifeless. Her hair is stringy and unkempt. Her wrists are bound in front of her to show how she is a prisoner of sorts. The mirror in her hand represents the reflection of herself that was broken. The biomechanical scene all around the woman symbolizes the mechanical and robotic aspect of the life I used to lead. The ropes that tangle and trail up my spine represent the bonds that kept me immobile, the seven overhand knots ascending the rope are for each of the seven years that I spent living like that. Lastly, but most importantly, the large blue bird with wings fully spread is the best picture of myself that I could think up.” I sighed, careful not to move too much.

  “What about the little red rose blossom?” Tucker asked, and my heart squeezed while I remembered the baby that never came to be.

  “The child that I lost was due to be born in the month of June, and the small red rose blossom is the reminder that even though my baby never made it to this world, he or she existed and will always be my first child. I wanted the rose tucked under the left wing of the bluebird, flush against the bird’s body because I’ll never get to hold my first child flush to my body. I guess it’s a way to hold them. It’s the closest I’ll ever get.” Tears spilled over the rim of my eyes, and I let them fall freely while remembering the utter heartbreak that losing my child caused.

  “The tattoo will make it impossible for me to forget everything.”

  “I’m so sorry. Sounds like you were dealt a bad hand,” was Tucker’s response to my story. Once he had finished the entire outline of my tattoo he carefully wiped away excess ink and applied a liberal amount of ointment to my skin. He directed me to a large mirror so that could see it. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the tattoo perfectly outlined on my back. It was stunning and precisely what I had envisioned it to be. There was no doubt about it; Tucker was a skilled tattoo artist.

  After covering the area with a light bandage, I gave my thanks to Tucker and left. When I got home that evening, Cheyenne was waiting for me in the kitchen where she was cooking something that smelled amazing.

  “Hey Chey. Whatever you are making over there smells like it could send me to heaven at warp speed!”

  She smiled shyly and shrugged her petite shoulders. “Aww thanks. It’s nothing special really. Thought you might want something good to eat after your int cftend erview today. Speaking of, how’d it go?”

  I took in a deep breath and readied myself for the story that was about to pour from my mouth.

  “So, I went to the interview and it turns out Mr. Chase of Chase and Associates is Ben. Ben is Mr. Chase, Mr. Chase is Ben. They are one in the same.”

  Cheyenne’s eyes grew as wide as the cooking pan she was standing in front of. “Get out! Are you joking? What did you do? Did you get the job? Wow, Kat what are the odds?” I shrugged my shoulders in bewilderment.

  “I took the job. I start tomorrow. I’m not sure getting the outline of this tattoo done the day before I begin a new job was the smartest thing I have done in recent history.”

  Cheyenne’s eyes grew even wider at my admission. “Oh my God! Let me see.” I turned away from her and lifted my shirt to expose my back. She carefully peeled away the bandages and retreated a step to get a good look. I glanced at her over my shoulder. She gasped and covered her open mouth with her hand once she took in the sight of Tuckers talent. I didn’t say anything. I waited for Cheyenne to speak.

  “Kat,” she whispered. “It’s…it’s so beautiful and huge! Geez, Kat, I know you said you were getting this tattoo, but you never said how big it was going to be, and you still haven’t told me what it’s all about. Spill it.” Cheyenne put the bandages back in place, and I straightened my top then began explaining. She didn’t have much to say just gave the occasional head nod. After I was done, she hugged me with care managing to avoid the tender flesh of my back. “It’s incredible, really. I love it, and it means a lot to you. I can’t wait to see it once it’s finished.”

  Speaking of the tattoo.

  “You will never guess who the tattoo artist is. Tucker Barrett, better known to us as Mr. Bar Brawl diffuser.” I pursed my lips together and closed my eyes while slowly nodding my head.

  “The hot tattooed guy? No freakin way Kat! How-”

  I cut her off before she could continue. “I was looking for the best artist around, and some good looking guy at that coffee shop I told you about approached me and gave me Tucker’s information. The guy said he was the best, so I checked up on it and sure enough, the guy is
talented. You should come with me to my next session. Tucker is supposed to be filling in the tattoo. He said he wants to take you on a date.”

  She clapped her hands in front of her chest and did a little jump.

  “Yes! That would be awesome. Hey, maybe I could get a tattoo from Mr. Sexy tattoo guy himself.” She smiled broadly.

  Oh, Chey, I am positive that Tucker would love nothing more than to spend some alone time with his tattoo machine and your bare skin.

  I spent most of that night attempting to get comfortable in my bed. I failed miserably. Between the new tattoo and my shot nerves over having to see Ben the next day, sleep remained elusive nearly all night. I finally fell asleep in the early morning hours and was close to being violent at the first sound from my alarm clock.

  Wednesday, May, 22nd, 2013. Day 225 since Aidan.

  Oh no. No. No. No. Shut the hell up noise maker! Please don’t be time to get up already!

  I reluctantly flipped back my plush down comforter and rolled out of my warm bed bickering to no one all the way to the bathroom. I knew Cheyenne would not be up yet, so it would be up to me to get to the coffee pot and whip up some liquid motivation. After my trip to the bathroom, I sluggishly trudged into the kitchen and started the coffee pot.

  I returned to the bathroom and got into the shower. I got myself all cleaned up, and got dressed in the outfit I had laid out the night before. I stepped into the deep plum purple sheath dress and successfully zipped it myself. The dress had a nice scoop neck but did not plunge low enough to reveal cleavage. The darted seams and delicate belted waist of the dress was very flattering for my curvy figure. I slipped on camel colored pumps to match the thin belt around my waist and checked the whole outfit in my full length mirror.

  Okay. Not too shabby, Kat.

  I gave myself a nod of approval then I applied a fair amount of makeup to combat the fatigue that had created bags beneath my eyes. I did nothing with my hair other than semi dry it into a thick, damp mass and pull it up into a slick bun.

  Good. Professional looking. Now, off to conquer the world.

  I snickered inwardly at my absurd private banter. Good thing no one can hear your thoughts, Kat. Otherwise, you would already be committed into some ‘special’ Hospital for being mental. Said Hospital comes with cushy accommodations including room service, plush padded walls, very modern minimalist décor, oh, and last but not least…a free jacket! Talking to yourself in the third person tends to make folks question a person’s mental stability. Oh well. Note to self: Self, keep insane third person chatting under wraps.

  I rummaged through our little kitchen in search of my favorite travel mug and came up empty handed. There were still a few boxes lingering around waiting to be unpacked and I was sure that with me having zero luck with everything in life, my mug was likely buried near the bottom of a box.

  cew d n No time for this crap, Kat! Awesome. Cheap disposable coffee cup it is.

  I searched the kitchen yet again for one of the disposable cups Cheyenne had bought and found the cup, but there was not a lidded one in sight. So like any reasonably intelligent person, I decided to wing it, sans coffee cup lid.

  Seriously Kat, what’s the worst that could happen? Work. Go. Now.

  I stood in the doorway of our apartment staring into the lid-less mug. I was contemplating a whole host of possible mishaps but shook my head to wipe away my irrational thoughts and verbally scolded myself for wasting time that would be much better used commuting to work.

  I really AM mental! Don’t walk, run. Can’t be late.

  On the drive to my first day of work at Chase and Associates, I made sure to listen to the right music to get me excited for my first day. I was usually pretty good at scrolling through my impressive playlists on my iPod. I could even do it without out looking much at all. I knew how much flick from my thumb would put me at or near the artist that I happened to be seeking. However, on that day apparently I was shit at this carefully developed iPod enthusiast skill because I could not make anything work in my favor. When I first got into my car I was content with listening to an excellent selection of songs by John Mayer.

  Yeah, that will do the trick.

  However, I was ready to skip to the next song about sixty seconds into the first song which happened to be about someone’s body being a wonderland, and someone who either took the afternoon off from work to bang said wonderland or was clearly unemployed. This concept simply irritated me mostly because I was jealous of this ‘wonderland’ person, if they even existed. For my sake, I hoped they didn’t. So with that summary of the song flitting through my head it was on to the next song. Flick. Next. The next song that filled the cabin of my car was equally as frustrating as the first song. This song was all about doom, gloom, failure in relationships and metaphorically dancing in burning rooms to prove it all.

  Oh, hell no, the newly divorced Kathleen Cooper will NOT be listening to this right now, thanks!

  With that, I made my move to scoop up my iPod from its precarious perch atop my center console which also served as an armrest. I fumbled with it for a moment while still driving my car, perhaps a little less fluidly. That’s when my front right tire encountered the most foreboding, gargantuan pot hole I had ever seen. With a huge thunk-thunk noise, both my tires on the right side careened through the crater. My thumb was poised, ready for iPod flick action when the impact and noise jarred my body and startled me. Upon impact, the iPod was instantly vaulted straight up into the air between my seat and the passenger seat. It landed perfectly, I mean, Olympic Gymnast, perfectly into my lid-less piping hot coffee. The auxiliary cord remained plugged into the damned thing in vain of course because the moment the m c mo lid-lolten lava enveloped my prized possession, all music about doom, gloom, failed relationships and metaphorically dancing in burning rooms…ceased, and ironically enough, the damn thing maybe even sizzled a bit. I pulled over the first chance I got to survey whatever damage had been done.

  Gah! Shit! Damn that highly fucking hazardous crater sized pothole and stupid missing lid!

  I got out of my car and walked around to the front, then along the passenger side to the rear. I could not see any obvious signs of damage but then again a rock would be more knowledgeable about auto mechanics than I. Once I was satisfied that nothing major was wrong with my only source of transportation, I checked on myself.

  Yep Kat, definitely jazzed up with adrenaline now!

  I checked my clothing and made note of the fact that a few fat droplets of coffee successfully sloshed across my dress. My deep purple dress now had a not so lovely array of dark splotches scattered across my lap. There would be no time to return to my apartment and change. I was cutting it close as it was. I returned to the driver’s seat and resumed my drive to work, which really did not take long since our apartment was relatively close to Kennedy Plaza. When I arrived and hunted down a parking space, I noted the time on the clock in my car.

  Five minutes to get your ass to the 42nd floor Kat!

  I didn’t want my half-full coffee cup to sit in my sweltering car, in May, in Texas, all day, so I grabbed my purse and my pathetic excuse for a coffee cup and made a bee line for the entrance. I narrowly slid between the closing doors of an already full elevator and waited as it ascended smoothly to my floor. I got a few questioning stares from the people around me in the elevator. Geez, lady stop staring at me like that. You look like a witless Neanderthal who happens to be generously doused in the most offensive scent I have ever had the displeasure of smelling. Yeah lady, it’s a fucking iPod in my coffee cup. What’s your excuse for smelling like moth balls, cigarettes, grape soda, cat piss and a stuffy basement?! Sweet Jesus, deliver me!

  I had the raging urge to scream at her for having no manners. Staring is rude as hell and so is going around smelling awful. Everyone knows this. The unsatisfied grunt that I fought to keep tucked away safely in my repressed thoughts nearly escaped my mouth, and I had to fight with more effort to appear unaffected. I didn’
t want to be completely tacky by covering my mouth and nose in a desperate attempt to spare my senses from the onslaught. The iPod remained in its now cold coffee bath, auxiliary cord and all. I had no napkins to take care of the mess, so I decided to deal with it once I was in the office. When the elevator eased to a stop on the 42nd floor and the doors parted, I stumbled over my own feet as I scampered out into the corridor.

  Oh thank Jesus! She didn’t get off on my floor! Ah, shit, she was right next to me in that sardine can. Did any of that stink rub off on me cs N she?

  I stood motionless in the corridor while people milled all around me. I was doing my best to discreetly determine if I was stench free or if a tomato juice bath was in order. I couldn’t tell one way or another. It seemed like my olfactory perception had said screw this job, resigned, and skipped town leaving me one sense short of the status: ‘fully functioning’. Dramatic as it seemed, my reaction really was completely warranted.