Page 37 of Tito

Tito

Sitting in the passenger seat of Braxton’s Range Rover, I gazed across the street. The exterior wall of the tattoo parlor was covered in a mural that had faded from years of exposure to the California sun. The once vibrant reds, yellows, blues, and greens were now chalky and faint. Nevertheless, the images were recognizable.

A dagger pierced the blossom of a red rose. Beginning at the bottom of the rose’s stem, a green serpent was intertwined around the dagger and the rose. With the mouth open and fangs dripping with venom, the snake’s head faced toward the person viewing the mural.

“What do you think that means?” Braxton asked, nodding toward the faded image.

I felt numb. My mind was incapable of processing much of anything. I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“The rose symbolizes beauty, vitality and love,” he said. “The dagger? Betrayal, death, destruction. Together, the rose and dagger represent the everlasting fight between good and evil. Life and death. Love and betrayal. The serpent? It’s somewhere between the two, offering the temptation to choose. I find the fact we’re here—right now, looking at this—ironic.”

Considering the source of the pain I’d been plagued with for the past week, he was right. It was ironic.

Eerily so.

“Do you really think this is going to help?” I asked.

Gripping the steering wheel loosely with each hand, he studied the mural. “I do,” he replied. “Suicide is a difficult thing for a survivor to understand. That lack of understanding causes us to question our worth as a support system for the deceased while they were living. What did we do wrong? What could we have done differently? The answer is nothing and nothing.”

“You said, ‘the lack of understanding causes us to question our worth.’ Has someone you’ve known committed—”

“My younger brother.” He stared blankly at the mural. “While I was at basic training. Sounds like he had some of the same problems as the girl you spoke of. When he was alone, he struggled to find his place in this world. In the presence of others, he was just like you and me.”

My throat tightened. I had no idea. I felt awful for bringing up Shelley, which undoubtedly dragged Hap and Braxton through the memories of their loss.

“Hap’s never said anything—”

“We all deal with suicide differently,” he said. “The Old Man doesn’t like to admit it happened. It was an overdose. He still believes it was an accident.”

I swallowed heavily. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. I cleared my throat. “For your loss. For everything.”

“Thank you.”

“Did uhhm, Did you,” I stammered. “Did you get a tattoo?”

“I did.” He glanced in my direction. “A rose. Everyone sees is as nothing but a flower. To me, it’s much more than that.”

I nodded. “It’s got special meaning.”

“It’s a rose that’s beginning to blossom. Nine petals are visible in the tattoo. The stem has three leaves. He dies on September third. I didn’t want to get a date tattooed on my chest. Seems when someone does that, it’s an invitation for people to ask questions.”

“Did it help?” I asked. “Getting it?”

“We’re only as sick as the secrets we keep,” he replied. “You may not be getting an inscription on your arm that reads, on August 8th, 2009 Shelley committed suicide, but in your mind, that’s what the message the tattoo carries. Did it help me? Yes. Immensely, in fact. Getting it allowed me to release…” He drew a breath and let it out slowly.

“That’s what I need,” I said. “To let all of this go. Release these memories.”

“I doubt the tattoo will rid you of the memory,” he responded, looking at me as he spoke. “That’s not what I meant. You need to find a way to forgive yourself. Let go of the guilt. You did nothing wrong, but deep down inside your gut, I’m sure you feel guilt. The what ifs are eating you up. My guess is that you’ve repressed your loss for ten years, clinging to that hat as a means of salvation. Now that the hat’s gone, you’re left to discover the truth.”

“What’s the truth?” I asked.

“The truth?” He nodded toward my door, and then opened his. “You’re getting a tattoo. That’s the truth.”

As if I had no choice, I followed him across the street and into the tattoo parlor. Maybe I wanted his idea to work. Maybe I wanted to get on with my life. Maybe I simply wanted the pain to cease. Whatever the reason, I was willing to give anything a try.

Just inside the door, a lean man with a 1930’s style haircut and a waxed mustache stood behind a high counter. His hands, arms, and neck were so heavily tattooed there wasn’t room for one more drop of ink to be placed on his skin.

Mounted to the surface of the island, a weathered metal sign gave warning to all who dared to enter.