I didn’t mean to get defensive but fuck, I’ve been on my own for a while, so when people want to come in and act as if they care, it’s a hard pill to swallow.
In the foster care system, I learned to depend on myself and nobody else. Do I believe the social workers tried their hardest? Few were willing, and most simply hurried me through the system.
Even as a kid, I realized that once they pushed me out at eighteen, I would have to take charge of my own future.
Painting was my escape. Well, whenever I could get paint supplies; otherwise, I’d just sketch on any scrap of paper I could find. I knew I couldn’t make a steady income through art, so I racked my brain trying to think of ways I could still create and still make money.
While getting my third tattoo, a string of pearls on my hipbone, the needle pierced my skin, and countless moments spent alone flooded my mind, intertwining with the pain. A flicker of inspiration ignited, showing me a path toward a future I could call my own.
I did my homework on tattoo shops in the area, hoping to find an opening to get me started.
There were rumblings of a place called Ink Me that was owned by a queer man a couple of towns over. Despite doubting Camden’s queer friendliness, I’m always up for taking a risk. Under the guise of getting a new tattoo, I scoped out the place as soon as I arrived.
The town itself looked like one of those perfect small towns you see on TV. ThinkGilmore Girls. It even has a cute little park with a mother-fucking gazebo.
Walking by a small diner with a rainbow sticker gave me hope.
I stuck out like a sore thumb. Crazy hair standing up all over the place, and don’t get me started on my leather pants. There’s just something about the right pair that will caress your skin and cradle your junk.
As soon as I walked into Ink Me, I instantly knew I belonged there. With another rainbow sticker on the door and the crazy-looking chick at the front counter, I felt a sense of belonging; more than any other tattoo shop I had stepped foot in.
Since I had already been looking to get new ink, I talked to the girl behind the counter, learning her name was Mira, and she got me in with Dom. He was as intimidating as fuck, but his tattoos… beautiful. He’ssotalented.
We were talking and bullshitting about life when I took my shot. Dom urged me to return the next day and meet Jaxon, the owner. I was disappointed when Jaxon informed me they didn’t have enough work to hire another tattoo artist.
It was going to be back to the drawing board for me until Jaxon cocked his head and asked me the one thing I knew would get my foot in the door.
“What are your thoughts on piercings?”
I simply pointed to all the metal; ears, nose, lip, tongue…
“Well, all right, you’re hired if you want it? We will have to get you licensed through the Department of Health, but I’ll cover the costs. And when the business grows, we can see about getting you some tattoo clients if it all works out.”
And that’s how I ended up at Ink Me.
When I finally walk through the front door of my studio apartment, my mood is shit. My mind is racing, anger and resentment building.
The world has pissed me off since I can remember. A deep-seated frustration that has my soul in its grips. A resentment that goes beyond any specific grievances and makes me doubt my very existence.
Never knowing what it feels like to have a family. Or having to get a test done on my heart and being scared that too many years of recklessness have caused damage.
My mind swirls, needing an escape.
I kick off my boots and socks before walking to the fridge to grab a beer, my shirt coming off as I go. The cool liquid slides down my throat, chasing away the dark thoughts rising to the surface in an unhealthy way.
I love my apartment. It has vaulted ceilings, with giant windows, and exposed brick. The look of an artist’s den. In moments like these, I find comfort in my safe haven. A familiar scent of paint floats through the air, a sizable canvas positioned in the room’s corner, the window nearby casting mesmerizing colors at sunset.
I stand and stare at the blank canvas. My restless fingers tremble with uncontrollable energy, racing to unleash an explosion of color. I pick up my paints, and with a flick of my wrist, a bright red splatter lands on the canvas.
My heart, bleeding.
Anger.
I see life catching up to me, and it’s making me spiral even harder. Maybe that’s why I’ve been so snippy toward Olly. I know he sees it. They all see it, but I’m not ready to be splayed open, every crack shown for them to see.
Black goes next until it blends into a deep, velvety red.
I don’t know how long I’m at it, but when the morning sun cascades through the darkness of the night, I know I need to pull myself back. As the adrenaline wears off, my limbs, heavy with exhaustion and colorful smears, protest as I drag myself over to bed and collapse onto the mattress.
