Tattooed Moon

by Tiana Laveen

  She would at times, way past midnight, stand there biting her nail down to the crux wishing that the poor woman’s pain would cease, realizing that only death could administer that damnable command. It was at these times, angry, heated tears would flood her face and she’d internally curse the world, the universe and all that dwelled within, across and in between. Katrina had clung to a stingy shred of life, a semblance of dignity, but oftentimes, Milan questioned if her mother was hanging on for herself or for her daughter, who cried almost every morning right outside of her closed bedroom door before entering. In those moments, she realized that she really understood nothing at all. She had no knowledge of what her mother recalled from day to day, for the information changed as quickly as a coin hitting the ground.

  Every daybreak, she’d sit at her mother’s side and read an article out of a magazine, usually Vanity Fair or Family Circle, two of the subscriptions the woman enjoyed. The glossy pages being turned were the only sound, as perfume samples from the printed thing wafted up, making her queasy as it mixed with the strange odors from the ointments covering her mother’s frail body. Milan would push that aside, and tend to more pleasant matters. She’d comb her hair just how her mother liked it, taking the brass brush and moving the fine, thinning hairs just so. She’d apply a thin layer of shimmery pink lipstick along her lips, and place her gold clip-on earrings just right, to make the woman look as she did when she could do all this and more, on her own. It didn’t matter that Katrina could no longer appreciate or care about her own appearance. Milan knew in her heart that her mother would never dress without putting on a bit of lipstick and earrings. It simply never happened.

  Happened…yes, what the hell happened?

  To this day, Milan wasn’t sure what transpired. It was literally like a light switch had been flipped inside of the woman, shutting the woman’s entire world down. The lady that would race about, listening to opera music, helping at her church on Sunday mornings, and cooking home-made, savory stews during the cooler months while joking and re-telling the latest celebrity gossip. Who was the woman her mother had become?

  One day, Mom forgot a thing or two, nothing severe. Then, within a few weeks, they were arguing—something they rarely engaged in. Her mother simply wasn’t the quarrelsome type; she was a peaceful soul with a zest for life. Regardless, the spats began, marched in as if they’d always been a part of the lady’s fabric and dared anyone to think it peculiar. One of the worse episodes had to do with an incident that could have had dire consequences. Mom had almost set her own house on fire. Had Milan not stopped by after work to bring her some dinner, the place would’ve been up in flames, engulfed and swallowed by a treacherous blaze, never to be seen again, with her inside it and the news stations on site.

  Her mother ferociously protested, calling Milan a balled-faced liar, declaring she wasn’t cooking a damn thing. She could see on her mother’s face that she’d meant what she said; this was no act. She’d never seen her mother become so wound up about a thing such as this, her defenses at a fever pitch. But the old woman griped, balling her fist tight and shaking it about in her face, declaring that Milan was stupid and a complete fool. Her mother had never spoken to her that way before. Ever. Yes, something was quite wrong…

  So wrong, that Milan questioned if she were going crazy her damned self, but there on the counter sat a partially cut onion, a butcher knife with a few thin slices of the thing clinging to the serrated edge, two yellow peppers and a packet of ground chuck defrosting in a plastic bowl on the counter, it’s bloodied juices warm to the touch.

  The pan burned oil and before long, a fire had ignited. She knew then that something terrible was happening with her mother, something absolutely dreadful. She couldn’t ask anyone what they’d seen. Mom lived alone. There were no witnesses to the manifestations, only a burnt pan that was now airing out and cooling down on the patio. Her father had died several years prior, and Milan was all the woman had. After a couple days’ deliberation and a few more exhausting disputes, she took her mother to the doctor. During the visit, she couldn’t believe her ears. No, she must’ve misheard… Her heart sank somewhere lower than her knees, her feet, and the soil beneath them. It travelled to the lowest place on Earth and her faith soon followed suit. Katrina Parker was diagnosed with dementia and it was also determined, she’d had at least two recent mild strokes. Milan gasped and lost her footing at the revelation, slumping onto the wall, clutching the fabric of her white and pink polka dot shirt.

  How could it be that this woman, so full of life and with a heart of the purest kind, was going out like this? No, she wouldn’t let this happen! Milan and Katrina fought, side by side. Determined to beat the odds, resolute to keep ahead of the vicious, unpredictable tide—but it was no use. More strokes came, and soon, Mom could barely speak. The doctors didn’t know what was causing them, this was a great mystery with no conclusion, never to be solved. It was apparent that her mother was unable to care for herself, and at times, she even grew violent during forgetful phases. How could this be? Her friend, the person she was closest to in this entire wide world, was losing her grasp on reality and an enriching existence, right in front of her eyes. How could survival be so punishing?

  This caused Milan to question life, period. She went into a dark purple tunnel and came out coated in tar-covered debris that clung to her emotions, dragging her away within its depressing clutch. She wrapped herself in it like a blanket, despite how it tore at her need for relief. She would not speak or eat for quite some time. What the hell was there to say?

  Why did good people die in painful ways, while the bad people slipped away of old age in their sleep? Who was making these rules?! Who was responsible for allowing these sorts of injustices to take place, all day, every day? Was it the same God that demanded to be worshiped, while simultaneously snuffing out the woman that had praised him for the majority of her life and made sure her one and only daughter did, too?

  We’ll understand it by and by?

  No! Milan wanted an explanation right NOW! Yet…God wasn’t answering. He was the same God she’d read about while gripping her Bible and reading the scriptures in Sunday school. He said all she had to do was ask. She asked that her mother be healed. Did God lie?

  God, how did you let this happen? Is this some sort of game? Perhaps a joke?

  Here was the same God that allowed her childhood best buddy to be molested by her stepfather. The same God who sat back and watched her father have a heart attack while later that evening, a mass murderer got to enjoy a three-course meal with tax payer dollars. Was it the same God that allowed the innocent to be damned, and the damned, to be declared innocent?

  As she contemplated all of this, a tinge of poker-hot anger moved inside of her. It sparked internally like a flung cigarette spark, leaving a hole inside of her heart. Where are you, God? Just curious…

  She burnt up with antagonism, and was destined to be a mountain of molten ashes. Actually, that was only what she told herself so she could simply survive her current lot in life, day by day. Rage over the whole, sordid mess was Milan’s gasoline. But in reality it was more than a damn twinge of anger; it was a full throttle apparition that had walked across her room, in its murky form, an embodiment of her own hatred for a Creator that was so pitiless and brutal, one she vowed to not have anything further to do with. Once a deeply spiritual person, and believing in the golden rule, she tossed that aside while the grieving process took hold of her and wouldn’t relinquish her to her former glory. She’d changed. She no longer liked herself. The unhappiness and heartache was killing her slowly but surely, and she wondered if she’d ever wake up and feel okay again. But then, one evening, she found herself on her knees…

  God, I need you…help me get through this!

  Some days, she had to give herself pep talks simply to open her eyes and face the newfound daylight. Other days, she promised herself she was okay, everything would be just peachy, and then she’d find herself wishing sh
e could just go somewhere and disappear without a trace.

  She only wanted to be free again. She wanted to forgive herself, forgive her mother for leaving like that, forgive God, forgive the world and everyone involved with aiding in her pain. She didn’t know what would make it better, and for the festering sore inside of her heart to finally heal, but then she’d seen a co-worker donning a beautiful tattoo of a bird on her arm and it struck her. She could step out of her comfort zone. Just maybe, she could do something personal like that, something totally different, and memorialize the woman that she’d never forget, and owed everything to. She was a successful accountant with a major firm because of that woman. She had a sense of self, because of that woman. Milan’s mother raised her to be self-sufficient and goal-oriented, but to also have fun while she was doing it.

  Milan understood how to be responsible and enjoy life, but now, enjoyment was something she could no longer comprehend, let alone relish. Being responsible felt like a shackle attached to her ankle, dragging her down farther than she already was, and at times, that felt pretty fucking low.

  I can’t do this, today…

  She pulled herself out of the depressing thoughts before they mounted too high, destroying her entire week. This was a constant battle, but today, she wanted to attempt to win this mêlée. She took hold of the beautiful sketch Julian had drawn and focused on it, smiling down at it like the fine thing that it was. She went somewhere else, somewhere that was safe, but much to her own surprise, her thoughts morphed into more pleasant territory—Mr. Savant himself. His appearance, his smile, his eyes…his body. She grinned to herself, then palmed her heat-flushed cheek and tossed the drawing aside. Oh my…

  He sure was cute… Men hate being called ‘cute’. I didn’t call him cute though; I’m just thinking is all. No harm in that…

  She’d seen her share of glorious eye candy and enjoyed appreciating, unwrapping and tasting the flavors before a hearty bite and swallow. Her world was open, though she had to admit, Julian wouldn’t have typically been her type, despite her eclectic desires. She went for a more ‘put together’ package—the suits, ties, a polished look. Julian had elaborate tattoos running up and down his damn arms, some menacing, with glistening, jagged teeth and black-skulls with hair-raising, soulless eyes while others were the polar opposite. Those ones were the most moving, profound and magnificent, while yet a few she viewed, she didn’t understand, but still found to be well constructed and amazing.

  Some were done in white ink, barely visible, but their beauty astounding. Some looked tribal, and those spoke to her in a special way. A part of her at the time of her consultation wanted to ask him about all of his body art, she was certain that beneath his partially unbuttoned shirt and slightly fitted jeans covered a world of fleshy art she could never imagine but then she’d get distracted by his piercing blue eyes and the silver bar running through his pitch black eyebrow. He had an alluring scent that caught her by surprise as he leaned over during her embarrassing breakdown, snatched a tissue, and handed it to her. A mixture of zesty soap, sweet incense, and something earthy…

  He must be old school…

  She also didn’t miss the hint of sweet oil, like a cologne perfect for an autumn day.

  His hair was almost jet black, and she could tell it was long, but how long, she wasn’t certain for he had it pulled back in a sloppy ball that hit the nape of his neck. A few wispy strands hung across his broad shoulders while the rest had been wound loosely around a pen. She hadn’t seen many people wear their hair that way, but somehow, it suited him. His Adam’s apple was prominent, and though she wouldn’t describe him as muscle-bound, he was slender yet chiseled…and tall. He must’ve stood at least 6’4. If his smile weren’t so warm and kind, he’d be damn near daunting. His jawline was hard, yet not overly so. One feature that drew her in were the man’s high cheekbones. Prominent, the kind models starved themselves for, yet, he had them naturally. His features were so defined, so rigid, so masculine, yet…so stunning and sublime.

  He might have some Indian in him… But his last name is Savant… What is that? Sounds French… Yeah, I bet that is what it is. It even sounds like, ‘croissant’, and when he said it, it had that French pronunciation going on…

  She made a mental note to look it up for her own curiosity, to put the matter to rest, then fell back into her daydreams. His carefully cropped goatee presented a stark contrast to his otherwise ink-covered skin. Milan didn’t mind a man with one or two tattoos, maybe even three or four, and though she couldn’t see all of the man’s body what she had seen, left her with no doubt he was a damn walking collage. She found it disturbing, yet intriguing all the same.

  Why would someone do that to themselves? Why so many?

  She stumbled upon Julian in a fair enough way. She realized she’d need to make her own go of it, after discovering her coworker had received hers out of town, all the way in California while on a family trip. She set out on her own to discover a place that wasn’t terribly far away and also had great reviews via her online research. During that investigative process, she uncloaked all sorts of information, such as the rather bizarre matter of tattoo addiction and that obsession aspect was completely unfathomable in her wildest imagination.

  She was certain that would never be her, addicted to ink. Though she wouldn’t coin herself as a wuss, afraid of a needle or two, it definitely wasn’t her notion to turn into reality and she couldn’t possibly envision how it would ever be, no matter how beautiful the finished result. No, this would be a one-time thing. An experience that would always remain in her memory bank, and then she could move on. Making her way towards her refrigerator, she pulled out the carton of orange juice and poured out a big glass, thinking about what she had to do at work that morning. She checked the time.

  I better hurry up and get in the shower…

  She gulped down the juice, made a mental note to stuff the ‘Soul Inscriptions’ paperwork in her purse and made a mad dash back up the stairs to her bedroom, her red-sock-covered feet barely touching the carpet as she took flight, fighting against the clock. On the way, she felt her jaw twitching. She resisted, but it was rather short lived. She was smiling again.

  Yeah…he is really cute…no…handsome…mmm, the ‘Good Looks’ fairy blessed him…

  ‡

  Chapter Three

  Julian scratched his inner thigh as he stared at Angela out the corner of his eye. His employees were busier than a can of oil during a bald man’s competition. It felt good to finally take a breather. He made sure to personally do no more than three appointments per day now that he’d begrudgingly agreed to hire more help. He wanted to become accustomed to doing less, and supervising more. Thus far, he hated it. He had been told by Angela, what was the point of having a successful, lucrative business, if he never got to feast from the fruits of his labor? And the little lady was right. He checked the time. Almost 7:30 P.M.

  His heart raced as if he were expecting a blind date, and it felt rather foolish to behave in such a way. Regardless, he had little to no control over it. He had thought about Milan quite a bit the previous evening. He wondered if she enjoyed her job and what she did for a living. He had a myriad of nosy questions about her likes and dislikes, from songs to cuisine, to a wish for full discovery of how open her mind truly was. That was an ongoing issue Julian had had in his dating life. Here he was, almost thirty years old, and he’d had a hell of a time finding a woman to meet the criteria for his relationship checklist. He didn’t enjoy dating; he preferred a committed venture. What he desired was too personal to simply be putting around. Besides, he enjoyed setting up roots. Nevertheless, he was certain that the problem was not the women, but him.

  He was particular; others would simply say persnickety, maybe too fussy. He wanted a woman that was, in some ways, his polar opposite. Many would see that as an odd goal. To him, it was ideal. In other ways, he needed this dream woman to be open, like a blossoming flower, available to receive origin
al philosophies and experiences, and to give them, too. He’d had it up to here with women giving him the wonky eye when he offered them a bag of fragrant herbs instead of a lit joint. He’d even been told his lovemaking style was a study within itself, the source of questions and surveys for his lover to pose after she lay there exhausted, her naked body beyond satisfied but her brain unequivocally confused. He did things…said things…made the women he’d taken home feel a way they’d never experienced before according to their utterances. To him, it was natural, normal. Nothing to marvel at…

  Things he treasured doing, he wanted to take his time…do it right.

  He knew he wasn’t like other men. He’d known he was different from the average Joe at a rather young age. For one, he was into art and math, versus sports, like his peers. Drawing and mathematics was a rather odd combination to excel at, one being right brain dominated, the other left—but it was who he was. He always preferred pen and paper for anything, and since he believed all art was a series of geometric shapes, it seemed easy for him to incorporate one into the other. Accuracy was important; it dealt with measurements and attention to detail. He thought girls would be the same—easy formulas to crack with the right attention to detail once he began to actively date at the age of thirteen. He soon found out, not everyone with plush, pink lips and a name that ended in an ‘A’ came with such easy instructions. Matter of fact, there were no formulas, periodic charts or flow diagrams that could assist him. He had to find his own way into understanding a woman, and he took it case by case. He was intrigued by the way they moved, spoke, smelled and carried themselves. They became his muse, so it was no surprise that at one pivotal point in his life, his best friend was indeed a woman. And then, there was his other roadblock…