Welcome to the final four. Welcome to Tattoo Spectacle.
Hale
Four weeks pass in the blink of an eye. One moment we’re stumbling through awkward introductions and forced proximity, and the next we’re standing on the edge of the finale, exhausted and somehow still standing. Aksel, Eric, and I have survived four more eliminations, which means the end is finally in sight.
The Saturday before the finale episode is filmed is reserved for thefamily spot. It’s supposed to be a heartfelt and emotional reunion between the remaining four contestants and their closest friends and family. Of the four beings left, only two actually have family willing to show up for them.
Eric and I both begged Nadine to let us sit this one out.Like, full-on, on our knees, pleaded. We made compelling and logical arguments. When that didn’t work, we made emotional and dramatic ones. She shut us down without blinking.
They’d already flown people out for us, apparently. Unless we wanted to personally cover six round-trip flights to Vegasandhotel accommodations, we were shit out of luck.
When I asked who the fuck they could possibly be flying in for us, Nadine only smiled serenely and said, “Some people from your past wanted to show support.”
That answer sat in my gut like a stone.
We eventually piece it together through frantic group texts with the artists back at our shop in Louisiana. All of them are coming. Every. Single. One. It’s… nice, I guess. Thoughtful, even. The show found a workaround so Eric and I wouldn’t look totally abandoned on national television.
Still, it doesn’t change the truth of it.
There’s no one in my corner. Not really.
Yeah, Aksel’s parents could technically count as mine now, but it’s not the same. Not even close. I don’t have a lifetime of inside jokes with them. No shared history or unconditional childhood safety net to fall back on. They didn’t raise me. His parents supporting me now, as an adult, does magically fill the space where my own parents should be.
Every time I try to talk to Aksel about it, he gets… strange. Not distant exactly, but reserved. He gives me polite, well-rehearsed answers about how excited his parents are, how happy he is that my shop family is coming, and how proud everyone will be of how far we’ve come.
It feels like customer service responses. Safe and neutral.
If I push him on it, he kisses me, and my brain immediately shuts off. What can I say? I’m a simple creature with easily exploited weaknesses.
So here I am, up way too early on a Saturday morning, chugging burnt hotel coffee and preparing myself to be emotionally overwhelmed on camera by the blatantly visibleproof that I don’t have a village.
I should be in bed with my husband right now. Warm and barely conscious, or getting railed to within an inch of my life while forgetting the rest of the world exists.
But sadly, that’s not happening today.
Instead, I get to bare mysoul for reality TV.
I briefly wonder if, when all of this is over, I can cash in whatever emotional currency I’ve earned for a spa day. Or maybe something more permanent, like a tattoo.
Or a lobotomy.
When we enter the convention area, five separate camera crews are setting up, cables snaking across the concrete floor and lights humming softly as they warm. The space smells faintly of stale coffee and lavender cleaner, a scent I’ve become familiar with over the last several weeks.
Four crews. Four angles. Four different stories being carved out of the same moment.
I’m guessing the two cameras set up next to each other mean Aksel and I will be sitting together. That tracks. It’s smart because if his parents are here being doting and affectionate, it’ll be less obvious that I don’t have anyone of my own to show up for me.
I’ve spoken to his parents a handful of times on video chats. They’re warm in that effortless way, like people who have never had to ration their love. They laugh easily and ask thoughtful questions. They’re the kind of people who remember small details and make you feel seen without even trying.
I feel an old flicker of guilt for all the shit-talking I used to do about them in high school. Turns out I was just bitter.
Barstool-style chairs are arranged in neat rows in frontof stark white backdrops. The setup is minimalist and unforgiving. There’s no place to hide, and my nerves spike instantly. My palms go slick, and my legs bounce despite my best efforts to keep still.
It’s ridiculous, really.
I can tattoo someone for hours without breaking a sweat. Blood? Fine. Pain? Manageable. Permanence? That’s
my whole career. You want something etched into your skin forever? I’m your guy. Need me to drive through rush hour traffic in downtown Houston with no less than three near-death experiences? I’m cool as a cucumber.
