"... cause you know, as cathartic as this is, you're only covering up the scars."
"Hmm?" I hummed as I fell from my day-terror and back into the chair. My body remained limp while I relived my nightmare.
"I was just saying I believe beauty comes from within. These scars you're trying to cover are badges of courage. They're there to remind you how much you've survived. Although I think making them more colorful is a great idea, it won't hide the pain under the surface."
"Yeah, well, you weren't there when I got them. Trust me, not having the scars there to remind me would feel better," I huffed. I didn't mean to be such a difficult person. I just felt like it was none of the artist's business. He was a man. He couldn't possibly know how I've suffered.
"I get that they're a sensitive subject. Anyone with scars has felt pain. No one person hurts more or less than another, everyone experiences agony on different levels," he winked. "It doesn't make any discomfort greater than the last."
I was getting sick of his happy, motivational bullshit. He was just an artist. If he wanted to be a psychologist he should have gone to school for however many years it took. That's what I had to do to get my job. I was oddly content as the familiar pain brought another uncontrollable flashback on its heels.
"You are not going out to the movies with her! She is poor, unchristian, and not suited to be your friend," my mother shouted in my sixteen year old face.
"She's more than just a friend," I sneered under my breath.
"What did you just say?" my mother screamed at a pitch I was surprised wasn't only audible to dogs.
"I said," I paused for teenage dramatic effect, "she's my girlfriend!"
Had I known at that age what I came to learn about my mother later that year, I wouldn't have been quite so bold. It takes years to beat a strong woman into submission. It has to start somewhere.
Thwack!
"What the fuck was that?"I screeched as my hand flew up to touch the back of my head. My mother glided to my side to slap me across the face.
"You will not shame us by being...one of those, and you will not swear in this house."
Her voice was lower and quieter than I had ever heard in the past, rising in volume only when she said 'not'. She stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door in my face when I tried to follow. I immediately regretted my decision to be bold. I loved my mother. Why would I say things just to make her angry? Alecia and I were only friends anyway. Sure, we were close, but we never really talked about any feelings we may have had for one another.
I wasn't sure if the hurt I felt was for disappointing my mother, from the venom that dripped from her words, or the lump that formed at the base of my skull where the rolling pin had connected. I blamed myself for each. I should have known better than to antagonize my mother.
My parents had always told me homosexuality was unnatural, that it was an abomination against God. I decided to read my bible as punishment. I hoped it would make my mother happy. The headache began as I took that first step toward my room. Instinctively, my hand found the lump on my skull and snapped back to show the result of my query. No blood. I avoided the hospital that time.
"Most people squirm when I do this part, don't worry," Tobias, the tattooist, cooed as the needle repetitively punctured a particularly sensitive section of my ankle.
His words were meant to be reassuring, but instead, forced me back to the present. At least in the past the pain was mostly emotional or psychological. I could feel the crack to the back of my head, but it was like a dream. The sensation didn't linger the second my consciousness returned to the tattoo parlor.
I wondered, had I been born into another household would I never have been abused? Had I kept being friends with Alecia, maybe no man could have ever hurt me. I knew that was just my anger speaking. I was jaded and I knew it. I didn't believe for a second that women were any better. I really had become maligned with age. Maybe the artist was right about the emotional scars. I probably would have been better off going to a shrink.
No! You are not going to let them walk all over you again. You are strong, you are beautiful, you control your own future.
Who was I kidding? I'd never think myself beautiful again.
"Can I ask where you got this one?" Tobias was tentative as his needle gun passed around my gnarly mess of an ankle bone.
"I was shot," I shrugged.
That particular scar was the only one I didn't get from abuse; unless of course the stupidity that comes with being brought up by abusive people counted.
"Care to give details?"
The man gave an awkward chuckle. I looked at him truly for the first time. He was a very good looking twenty-something year old man. His stylishly cut hair showed off a tattoo from his temple to the back of his head. His crystal blue eyes twinkled with that excitement for life I long since dismissed, and a drive that left the first time I was stabbed.
"My dad had guns when I was a kid. I was rooting around in their closet for a bible one day," I paused to clarify, "they were real fundamentalist types, you know? Well, a box fell from above and I was curious about it. I had never seen a real gun. My parents wouldn't even let me play with pretend ones. So I pointed it at the ground, and pulled the trigger. The kickback all but flung the thing from my hands, the bullet lodged deep in my bone. I was the youngest person my surgeon had ever worked on. The man reconstructed my ankle from pretty much nothing."
I smirked. The story made me happy for some twisted reason. My ankle scar was the only one I'd given myself. It represented a token of control I hadn't relinquished. Of course, I left out the part where my mother whipped me with my father's belt until my ass felt raw before I was allowed to go to the hospital. My smile faded at the memory. How had I not realized then how horrible she was? Not that my father was the saint he would have people believe. A Pastor, yes. Saint? No.
"I find it strange that the scars we come to terms with first are the ones we create ourselves. It's a strange pride one takes in one's ability to make and learn from their own mistakes," Tobias answered.
I was surprised he had gotten so deep into my own thoughts that I had a hard time closing my mouth and popping my eyeballs back to their preferred spots in my sockets.
"I have a Bachelors of Psychology, and Masters of Social Anthropology. I'm trained in how to read people," he chuckled, reading my expressions, I gathered.
"Why are you a tattoo artist?"
Damn him! I was so prepared not to care what or who this person was. He was just another man capable of hurting me. I realized immediately my unfair assessment and took it back within my mind. I re-evaluated my stance, concluding that he couldn't be trusted because he was human. Gender had little to do with it. After all, my mother had hurt me worst of all.
"Such a genuine question from someone so hostile. Am I wearing you down?" Tobias winked at me again with that insufferably childish face of his.
I assumed he sensed my anger and continued before giving me a chance to snap at him. I was thankful deep down for the intrusion. I didn't like hating the world, it just came naturally now.
"I'm using this to pay off school. I had some financial troubles and got kicked out of my program. I can pick it back up once I'm out of debt." He paused. From the look on his face, I assumed he was taking a second to think his next words through. "I've always had a penchant for art and I thought people who wanted to change their bodies forever would be great subjects to keep my mind on my intended profession," he held his hand in the air as the gun clicked off. "I think you're the first who's been this interesting. Which, for four years of working with the gun, is saying something."
"So I'm just a subject?" I meant to ask this with simple curiosity, but the hurt from feeling used once again crept into my voice and, I assumed, showed in my features. The artist looked at me with an expression I'd seldom seen. It was like pity, but this time I didn't feel as though he thought me beneath him. I settled on reading sincerity from his features.
; "No, of course not." The words thrust through his mouth, bewilderment speckled his speech. "I'm so sorry. I got used to using field terms in school and sometimes forget not to apply them in everyday life. If I were observing you from a one-way mirror, conversing among colleagues, I would refer to you as a subject. But you came into my place of work for some ink and a shoulder. I'm so sorry if I made you think anything less than the amazing person you are."
"Yeah, so amazing that I've been hurt this many times," I scoff, sweeping my hands over my body.
It had been a long time since I felt insecure. As my life progressed, I had begun to think of my scars as clothing. The more damage my body retained, the less desirable I became. I was no longer a sexual creature.
My insecurity surpassed the simplicity of being exposed before a man's eyes. I felt a different kind of bare. It was as though he could see through my body, right into my soul. I shuddered at the thought of a spirit. It always pushed my mind back to the religion I had been born and raised with. I was groomed to believe I was a lesser being than a man. My mind flipped through the implemented ideals that preached being kind to your fellow neighbor; unless of course that particular neighbor didn't believe in God. Then it was more than acceptable to accost, alienate, and ostracize them as the need arose.
Tobias cleared his throat. The sound reclaimed my attention and I realized the tattoo gun no longer buzzed. My daydream had been selfish and rude. All of my teachings had me craving to apologize, kneel, wait for him to strike me, then apologize as if I had made him do so. My experiences placed a scowl on my lips and daggers in my eyes to fight the trained urge to submit.
"I'm done the piece you wanted. Would you like something else, or is this it for today?"
"Cover me," I demanded, fists balled at my sides.
"Aw honey, there isn't enough time for that, not today at least," he thought for a fraction of a second before he continued. "How about this: I don't have anything else scheduled for the day so I can work on you until you can't take it, I get tired, both, or midnight. Maybe later if the owner lets me keep the shop open but it will take lots of sessions to cover your entire body. It took me forty five minutes just to do that," he pointed to the rose on my ankle.
When I first walked into the shop, I told him to do whatever he wanted. He said that the most common starter tattoo was a flower and he wanted to know my favorite. I had never been given flowers, and I decided my first rose would be a gift to myself.
Now that the rose was mine, my mind scrolled through all the images I could ever hope to retain upon my flesh until I die. My breaths slowed, becoming almost inaudible. I could hear the blood rush through my ears as I felt it drain from my face.
"How do you feel about a butterfly?"
"Isn't a butterfly kind of," I paused to find the word I wanted, "weak?"
"Have you ever seen how hard a butterfly works to struggle itself from its cocoon during a transformation? The butterfly is one of the strongest animals I know of. It starts as a caterpillar, something most people find ugly and strange. Slowly, it transforms into something beautiful. A butterfly's entire life is filled with unknowns and constant change, but in the end they not only become one of the most beautiful creatures that exist in our world, they come bursting with color and fly from their previous lives with the strength and courage they need to continue. Their lives are still not easy, as they are fragile creatures, but now they can fly. They leave who they were, what they were, behind them."
My entire face went slack at the description of what I previously thought were just pretty insects. It was a perfect description of where I wanted to go from where I felt I had been. My scars were ugly and I wanted to make them beautiful. I wanted to become this transcendent creature.
"Yeah. I think I'd like that," I mumbled at my feet.
This artist was having more of an effect on me than I thought possible. As he smiled, I swore I saw a jolt of understanding shoot to his eyes as one of his eyebrows lifted toward his hairline. My heart raced for a fraction of a second before I forced the excitement from my mind.
"Think of what color you want it to be before I get back. Make sure you want this. It will be on your body forever. I'm going to step out for a cigarette."
I thought of the artist while Tobias inhaled his tobacco. His imperfections swirled around his face in the smoke. The addiction could have been much worse than cancer sticks, but I knew better than to think I could judge him on first impressions alone. He could be a rapist for all I knew. The cold metal table I sat upon suddenly gave me a cold, sterile feeling. I covered myself subconsciously as my hand roamed from hanging at my side to just under my breast. A pinkie finger grazed a scar, the only one I had from my time with Alecia.
Her ash blonde hair, cut severe around her face, hung in wisps against her back. She used bleach, of course, but I couldn't picture it any other shade. I loved how she wore such dark makeup against her pale, Iranian skin. She was a white lily among red roses, her deep black eyes the only thing that betrayed her true ancestry. I loved her more than anyone before, or since.
Alecia was kind, gentle, and patient. She always looked at me with love in her eyes, until the end. The last time she looked upon my face was the only time I had ever seen her hurt or angry. I often reminded myself that I didn't mean to break her heart, but I would never get that expression out of my memories.
I looked deep into her eyes before we took our first kiss. Nothing had felt like that. I was nervous, anxious, and kind of upset. I was actively sinning, but didn't want to stop. Something must have been wrong with me. Nonetheless, my first kiss stolen by a girl was bliss. The love I felt for her at the time was something I would learn didn't come along often; some never got to experience pure love at all.
My religion, however, taught me I was doing something bad. After a relentless struggle and infinite patience from my best friend, I finally conceded I would live as a sinner. My decision and my new life made me so much happier than what my parents had me believing was God's will. At sixteen, I didn't really understand the bible anyway. I wish I'd known then that I could have grown to be whomever I wanted and still be acknowledged by God. I've learned He doesn't lightly decide human worth on matters of love. All sermons since breaking from my parents' church taught me to love, over all else.
Unfortunately my parents used religion to hide their abuse. Their beliefs were the excuse they used to hurt others and not help others as they were supposed to. They were fundamentalists in every horrible way imaginable. Not that anything could be done about it. They believed so heartily that they were doing God's good work.
"What in the heck do you think you're doing young lady?" my father screeched as he opened the door. To hear a grown man screech is a terrifying experience. Screaming is not manly, and my father would sooner die than stoop to a woman's level. Or at least what is perceived as such. For him to lose his composure and make such a sound meant he was more upset with me than he had ever been before.
Horror and disgust radiated from him, I could feel it from the bed where my girlfriend and I sat. We had only just pushed the boundaries of our friendship but since I had lied to my mother, my parents considered it strike two. The hand up my shirt became strike three. Alecia's long nails scraped along the bottom of my breast while trying to remove herself from my under-wire. My chest throbbed in pain but I knew better than to complain by this point. I would only be told my injury was my repercussion for my heathen ways. Unfortunately I believed this, and jumped to that conclusion before it ever needed to be stated.
God was mad I was happy.
"What are you doing to me?" I screamed in hopes that my father wouldn't punish me.
Alecia's dejection sent daggers through my heart. I wanted to take those words back so badly, but I knew even then that I wasn't the right person for her. She was so kind and I was so fucked up. I turned my eyes toward my feet when I caught a glimpse of blood pouring from my chest. The stain kicked my gag reflex into gear. I got up to rush to t
he bathroom. My father wouldn't let me leave the room and, in turn, ended up wearing my lunch.
"Leave," he bellowed.
Alecia sprang from my bed, muscles finally kicking into a gear after the shock of my father bursting in had rusted them into place. She fled from the room, anger radiating from her soul, masking the betrayal I knew she felt. I had hidden my parents' fundamentalist tendencies from Alecia. She never looked back on my crumpled form, nor my father's looming presence as she left. There is no way my mother would call after Alecia. Not only did mom suspect us of being together for longer than we actually had been, she undoubtedly heard the argument, as short and one sided as it was.
My hand lay resting on my scar when I heard the door's bell chime. Tobias smelled of spices along with the tobacco. His cigarettes were something I had never smelled in my life. It was somewhat intoxicating.
"What were you smoking?" I felt I had to know.
"Oh, they're a special kind of cigarette I order from specialty tobacco shop down the street. They put spices in them, what you smell are the cloves."
"I don't hate it as much as I usually do, the smell of tobacco smoke." I trailed the conversation, halting us to an abrupt pause. It was probably one of the few I'd felt in my life that wasn't uncomfortable.
"So you want your butterfly there," he asked, eyeing the place I forgot I had covered.
I nodded, unable to find my words. I still felt everything that was said and screamed in that last memory. My stomach turned with the thought of being sick. My color must have blanched as the artist disappeared wearing a worried expression, only to resurface seconds later with a cup of something fizzy.
"Sometimes, the tattoo process messes with people's adrenalin. This helps, I promise."
I chugged the drink back, not realizing how thirsty I truly was. My words remained trapped within as I stayed in the thoughts still clutching my soul, too pulled into my daydream to even recognize my drink by taste, but it did seem to help.
UnCommon Bodies: A Collection of Oddities, Survivors, and Other Impossibilities (UnCommon Anthologies Book 1) Page 31
