Alluring Ink

by Ranae Rose

  No answer. He kept knocking with one fist while he pulled out his phone and called Ben with the other.

  The phone went straight to voicemail.

  He was considering calling the police and asking them to break the door down when another door screeched on its hinges, several units down. “Shut the fuck up!” someone yelled, and slammed the door shut again.

  Anger sliced hot and potent through Dylan, and he continued to beat on the door. “Ben! Open the damn door!”

  The only person who came out was the neighbor who’d yelled at him. He stormed out into the hallway and stopped abruptly in his tracks when he got a good look at Dylan.

  He was tall but unusually thin, not very strong looking. Dylan could feel his anger shifting toward the stranger, and didn’t want to deal with him.

  “You have a fucking problem?” he asked when the guy just stood there, glaring at him and swearing under his breath.

  After a few seconds, the guy stomped back into his unit and slammed the door.

  Left alone, Dylan kept knocking, kept calling.

  It made no difference.

  After a solid five minutes, he was covered in nervous sweat. The way he figured, he had three options: try to get in touch with the landlord or manager and ask them to open the door, start calling local hospitals to ask if Ben was there, or call the police.

  He could ask the police if Ben had been arrested. And if he hadn’t, he could ask them to break the door down.

  There was no telling whether they’d do it, but Ben’s car was in the lot – obviously, something was wrong.

  He started with the hospitals, calling a handful of the closest with emergency rooms he could think of. That left him with nothing but wasted time.

  Calling the police finally got him answers.

  CHAPTER 13

  A sinking feeling hit Dylan when he was told that Ben had been arrested.

  “What happened?”

  “He was taken into custody by an officer after being found intoxicated in public.”

  “That’s not a crime.” Not in the state of New Jersey, anyway. One of the artists Dylan worked with in Newark had once been picked up by the police and held until he’d sobered up. They’d been cracking jokes about it at the shop for years, but that’d been the only real consequence.

  “He was charged with disorderly conduct.”

  The sinking feeling got worse. What the hell had Ben gotten into? Disorderly conduct could mean just about anything.

  “Has bail been set?” He’d never rescued anyone from jail before, but he at least knew that was the first step.

  “He doesn’t need bail; he just needs a family member to come pick him up. We can’t release him unless a relative takes charge of him, and he’s refused to give us the name or contact information of anyone who could do that.”

  “Why does he need someone to come get him?”

  “There’s some concern regarding his mental health. He’s been evaluated by a professional, and it’s been determined that it wouldn’t be safe to release him unless there’s a family member who can care for him.”

  “I can. I’ll be there soon.”

  Dylan’s heart was in his throat as he ended the call and hurried back to the parking lot.

  * * * * *

  It was evening by the time Dylan got Ben out of the city jail and into his car. “You hungry, man?”

  Ben didn’t say anything.

  Dylan glanced at his brother, who sat slumped in the passenger seat, dressed in the same jeans and dirty t-shirt he’d been wearing when he’d been arrested two days before. There was a dried stain on the front – some kind of alcohol, probably. The stubble on Ben’s jaw made him look older than twenty-four.

  He didn’t seem to care about anything – food or otherwise. He’d elected to pay a relatively small fine for his disorderly conduct charge instead of challenging it in court.

  “Ben? I was thinking we could pick up some Chinese.”

  “Get whatever you want,” Ben finally said, his voice flat.

  Jesus. Dylan didn’t want to eat either. His stomach was a mass of knots and burning guilt. He stopped at a take-out place anyway and ordered for him and Ben both.

  They rode in silence back to the apartment. Dylan tried to put together the pieces of what had happened while he drove.

  After acting weird and modifying a paint job without permission at work, Ben had disappeared for three days. During that time, he’d gone out and gotten drunk at a bar downtown. The bartender had cut him off and kicked him out, and after that he’d gone out into the street where he’d eventually been arrested for being so loud that he’d scared people, who’d complained to the police.

  According to the officers at the city jail, he’d been belligerent and uncooperative during his time there – so much so that they’d kept him and arranged a consult with a mental health professional after he’d sobered up.

  Which was when he’d gotten the diagnosis. Which had apparently taken the wind right out of his sails, plunging him into his current mood. Dylan didn’t need a doctor to tell him that Ben was depressed.

  And he couldn’t blame Ben for feeling that way, either.

  “You got your keys?” he asked when they arrived at the complex.

  Ben reached into one pocket and pulled a key ring out, the soft metallic noise of keys hitting each other breaking the silence briefly.

  Dylan carried the takeout into the one-bedroom apartment, flipping on the lights as he and Ben entered.

  There was nothing remarkable about the space – just white walls, beige carpet and ordinary furniture. Dylan had been there before, but not often enough, clearly.

  He wished he could change that now, but all he could do was open the take-out containers and snap apart the disposable chopsticks that’d come with them.

  “Sit down and eat,” he said when Ben looked like he was about to head down the hall to his room.

  Ben sat down but didn’t pick up the chopsticks.

  Dylan got glasses of water for them both, realizing he was hungrier than he’d thought.

  “We can trade if you want.” Dylan motioned toward his food – beef and broccoli. He’d bought twice-cooked pork for Ben because he knew he liked it, but hadn’t actually asked if that was what he’d prefer.

  “Nah, this is fine.” Ben glanced at his food.

  Dylan studied the shadows under Ben’s eyes, the slightly greasy look his brown hair had. Jail obviously hadn’t been much fun, but it was probably the best thing that could’ve happened to him, given the circumstances.

  A couple days in a cell for a minor offence like disorderly conduct was better than getting into serious trouble with the law, or into trouble with the wrong civilians. The booking had been a mercy, although Dylan didn’t say that out loud.

  He was also grateful that he didn’t have to try to convince Ben to see a doctor for a diagnosis – he’d been worried about that.

  Ben still needed to see a doctor, for sure, but hopefully the diagnosis he’d already been given would be enough to convince him he needed help.

  “I should probably give your boss a call,” Dylan said eventually. “Let him know you’re okay. He’s the one who got in touch with me and let me know something was up.”

  If that surprised Ben, he didn’t let it show. “Not my boss anymore.”

  “You sure about that? He didn’t say anything about wanting to get rid of you when I talked to him.”

  Ben finally met Dylan’s eyes. “I fucked up a paint job. Griff was pissed and the customer probably will be too. I don’t have a job anymore.”

  “Is that why you went out drinking?”

  Silence.

  “I think you should talk to Griff before you jump to any conclusions.”

  Dylan ate for a while, letting the silence simmer.

  “There’s a good doctor I see with an office just fifteen minutes from here,” he eventually said, knowing he had to bring it up. “I think we should call and make an app
ointment with him tomorrow.”

  Ben shook his head. “Can’t. Don’t have insurance.”

  Dylan tried not to let his dismay show – not that Ben was looking at him anymore. “Well, we’ll have to change that. Meanwhile, you need to see a doctor. We’ll work something out.”

  “I can’t afford to go to the doctor. I don’t even have a job.”

  “I’ll help out if you need me to.”

  Ben shook his head. “I don’t want to go.”

  “Ben…” Dylan set down his chopsticks. “This isn’t something you can let go untreated. Trust me on that one.”

  Ben shrugged. “For all I know, that shrink at the jail was full of shit.”

  Dylan’s chest felt hollow. He remembered what a shock the diagnosis had been, and how denial felt. Most people went through it. No one wanted to be bipolar. Bipolar was for other people – unlucky, fucked-up people with lots of problems.

  Except when it wasn’t.

  “I doubt that.”

  Ben frowned. “Thanks a lot.”

  “It’s not an insult. Jesus, did you forget who you’re talking to?”

  Ben’s eyes flickered back to Dylan’s, and he caught sight of something there that took the edge off his frustration.

  Ben looked scared.

  Most people wanted to believe they were normal, that their problems would disappear over time, without them doing anything special to make it happen. Ben was no different.

  Dylan hadn’t been any different either, six years ago.

  “I didn’t want to believe it at first either,” he said. “Nobody does.”

  “Even if it was true, I wouldn’t want to go to the doctor. The idea of drugs messing with my head creeps me out.”

  “If you find the right drugs, it’s a relief – believe me.”

  “What about the wrong ones?”

  “You might have to try a few of those before you find the right ones.”

  Ben sighed.

  “Listen, I won’t lie to you. Being bipolar sucks. It sucks a bag of dicks. But the longer you go untreated, the bigger that bag is going to get. It’s not a matter of liking what you have to do; it’s a matter of doing it anyway. Because you have to. Look at what you’ve been through these past few days – we have to get a handle on this.”

  “Maybe it’s just me,” Ben said. “Maybe I did those things just because I’m me, and there’s nothing to blame it on – no disorder, or whatever.”

  “You did do those things, but you weren’t thinking straight. I know you, and those things weren’t like you.”

  Ben shook his head. “I can’t believe I messed up that paint job.”

  “I know what you’re going through.”

  “Yeah, right. I bet you tattoo shit on people they didn’t ask for all the time. Must be why you’re always booked up months ahead of time.”

  “You painted a car, Ben. It’s not permanent and it’s not a human being. It’s not the same. Anyway, I fucked up on national TV, remember?”

  Ben rolled his eyes. “You did that on purpose.”

  “Yeah, because it was either make an ass of myself then on my own terms, or self-destruct completely in front of everyone later. I went off my medication while I was on the show and things got shitty.”

  “I figured it was something like that. But still, it’s not like you messed up anyone’s tattoo. And people still want you to tattoo them. What I did affects my livelihood. I fucked up, and I can’t take it back.”

  “No, but you can do something to increase the odds that it won’t happen again.”

  “If being bipolar is even the problem. All that shrink did was ask me questions.”

  “Did she explain to you what bipolar disorder is?”

  He shrugged.

  “Well, I’m not a doctor, but as soon as your boss called and told me what was going on, I saw the red flags. And I’ve had years of experience with this. If you don’t trust that doctor, do you at least trust me?”

  “It’s different for everyone,” Dylan said when Ben didn’t reply. “Without medication, I feel down most of the time, and when I’m up, I’m not the same. I’m wired, I can’t sleep, I’m crazy productive because I can’t stand to do nothing. Point is, I’m driven, and then I’m down again. Sometimes, I forget what normal even is. That sound familiar at all?”

  After a while, Ben shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Let’s get a second opinion then, make sure the diagnosis isn’t off.”

  Ben didn’t look like he liked the idea.

  “If bipolar disorder is the problem, at least you have someone who gets what you’re dealing with.”

  It wasn’t much of a silver lining, but it was something.

  * * * * *

  Crystal clutched her phone, her knuckles white. She knew she was being overly dramatic, but she’d spent the day on a rollercoaster ride fueled by worry.

  James told me you had to go home, she typed, hope everything’s okay.

  Did it sound too nosy? Hopefully not. She was genuinely concerned about Dylan, especially after what he’d told her that morning.

  She’d scoured the internet for information on type two bipolar disorder, trying to wrap her mind around what it meant. The information she’d found had pretty much matched up with the explanation he’d given her. Now, the thought that their interactions had thrown his mood off-kilter made her feel guilty.

  He hadn’t left because his good mood had disappeared, taking his attraction to her with it, had he?

  She didn’t think so. He had a good professional reputation, and people prone to spontaneously running out on clients with no forewarning didn’t have good reputations. There was probably a reason why he’d left that had nothing to do with her.

  Still, she was disappointed that it was nearly seven o’clock in the evening and she hadn’t heard from him since he’d left her apartment. Maybe she shouldn’t have been, but she was.

  Tired of second-guessing herself, she hit send on the text message.

  Then she shoved her phone into her pocket and got Emily ready to leave. James and Arianna had invited her over for dinner, and though she suspected they were just trying to make her feel better, she’d accepted.

  Being alone was harder than she’d anticipated. Maybe she was weaker than she’d realized.

  * * * * *

  Dylan woke up with a cramp in his neck. He’d had one of the worst nights of sleep of his life, and not just because he was stressed over Ben.

  The apartment was dead silent. It was eight am, and Ben was still in bed.

  Dylan wanted to go out for a run, but didn’t want to leave Ben alone. Ben was in a low place and although he hadn’t mentioned it, Dylan knew the suicide rate for people with bipolar two – which he figured was most likely what Ben had – was almost twenty percent.

  Ben hadn’t said anything about doing something so drastic, but he’d been in such a negative mood when he’d gone to bed that Dylan didn’t want to risk it. One in five wasn’t a statistic to mess around with.

  He’d managed to get Ben to apply online for health insurance coverage the night before. He’d hoped that that plus talking to him about treatment would show him that there was a light at the end of the tunnel, but Ben obviously didn’t want to be labeled as bipolar.

  Dylan understood. Bipolar was a label that closed lots of doors, and never seemed to open any.

  He tried to take it easy on Ben because he could relate, and because the idiotic tough love approach his parents had used on him when he’d been younger still grated. They hadn’t known he was bipolar – he’d found out on his own at twenty-four, the same age Ben was now – but in retrospect, he could clearly see that he’d been affected by it since childhood.

  They’d treated him as a problem instead of acknowledging that he had a problem. Now, he was thirty years old and hadn’t lived under his parents’ roof since he’d been seventeen, but he still hated thinking about how they’d used their extreme religious beliefs in order to explain
and shame their ‘rebellious’ son.

  He’d been punished so frequently that he’d lived in a state of being perpetually grounded. Every little thing he’d said and done had been cause for a put down, a punishment or a scripture quote ripped out of context to impress upon him what a shitty person he was.

  There’d been times he’d genuinely been shitty, on purpose – teenagers were dicks, sometimes – but mostly, he’d been so emotionally untethered that his reactions to things had felt more like something that happened to him than something he controlled. The same shitty arguments, the same shitty feelings, the same accusations and the complete inability to stop any of it – it’d been a sick cycle that’d gone on for years, until he’d left.

  Ben wasn’t a kid, but Dylan knew well that plenty of people were just as ignorant about bipolar disorder as his parents were, treating people who had it like contagious second class citizens. At least Ben would have one person in his corner.

  Dylan filled a glass of water, took his medication and waited until nine o’clock to pick up his phone, prepared to beg for a favor.

  Apparently, it’d gone dead after he’d fallen asleep. He dug his charger out of his bag and plugged it into the wall, feeling like a dick because he’d only texted Crystal the evening before to cancel and apologize.

  He should have called – he would have, if he hadn’t been so worried about and busy with Ben.

  When the phone restarted, he had a new text from her waiting.

  CHAPTER 14

  Crystal woke up to the sound of a text notification. Realizing that it was nine am was like waking up on another planet – she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so late. Since she didn’t have to be at work until noon, it was fine, but she hurried out of bed anyway, needing to check on Emily.

  She found her in her crib with her legs curled beneath her belly and a thumb in her mouth. Her sides rose and fell steadily beneath her striped pajamas, and Crystal breathed a sigh of relief. Slowly, she left the nursery and returned to her own room.