Those fucking dreams.
They do this to me every time I have them. I thought they were gone, but apparently that was wishful thinking.
For six years, I’ve dreamed of a woman in the dark. A woman I’ve never seen before, with glowing amber eyes. At first, I only got small glimpses of her, and the dreams were so infrequent I didn’t think anything of them. She never spoke to me, only stared at me with eyes filled with torment.
Two years ago, they stopped, and they moved to the back of my mind. As of a couple of months ago, they came back, this time with a vengeance. She’s more vivid and she speaks now. Not that I can really understand what she’s saying. She asks for help, for me to come to her, but I have no fucking clue who she is, where she is, or how she wants my help. I don’t even know if this person is real, and if she is, why it’s my dreams she chose to invade.
It frustrates the hell out of me, because although I don’t know who she is I feel drawn to her, like some invisible force has tethered me to her. I can physically feel her pain as if it’s my own. Anytime I get close to her though, she disappears, just e
vaporates into thin air, leaving behind her agony to mesh with mine.
That’s when I wake up, the pain from the dream still holding me in its tight grip. I never go back to sleep, because the pain is too great. It usually takes hours for the ache in my chest and the throbbing in my head to ease. That’s why I’m here at Ink Me three hours early. To try to take my mind off my bizarre-as-hell dream.
I make a cup of coffee and carry it to the small office at the end of the hall where I do most of my drawing. Sitting down in the old cracked—but still comfortable—office chair, I pull a pad of paper from the desk drawer and look down at the image I’ve been working on for months. I still don’t know what the full picture will be. It’s a vision I had one day. Every so often, small things will appear in my head, and I’ll add to it. Right now, it’s just a wisteria tree with its branches spread out wide, drooping and full of leaves and purple flowers. There’s a girl sitting beneath it with her knees to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, and a bird on the lowest branch watching her. The branches hang so low that they almost shield the girl from the outside world. The last thing I added to the image was the silhouette of someone standing across from the girl. That was a couple weeks ago, and I haven’t had the call to draw more.
I flip the page to a fresh one and grab a pencil. A client came in a few nights ago wanting a tattoo of a woman that’s half angel, half devil. Original? No. But I draw what the client wants me to, and try to add some uniqueness to it.
Ink Me used to be my dad’s business. Growing up, I’d come here every day after school and watch him work. Mom hated it because most of the clientele that frequented back then weren’t people you wanted your kids to be around. Not because she had anything against the type of person who had tattoos or piercings—my dad was covered in tattoos and to this day she still says his body is a work of art—but because half were gang related or heavily into drugs or some other bad shit that hit the streets in this neighborhood. Silver Hill is split right down the middle with the proverbial railroad track separating the rich half and the dirty half. With Ink Me being the only tattoo place around, this was where people came when they wanted ink or piercings.
Before I was even old enough to really understand what a tattoo was, I knew I wanted to work here. I got my first tattoo machine when I was twelve years old and practiced on fruit. At sixteen, I apprenticed under my dad and he shaped me into what I needed to be to one day own Ink Me. I bought him out five years ago, and since then, I’ve cleaned the place up—not that it was trashy before, but a good paint job inside and out, new counters, equipment, and furniture does wonders—and I refused to put up with the bullshit of the fuckups that come in here. Dad was no pushover when he owned the place; actually, he was pretty much a hardass, but he also had his wife and three kids to feed, so he couldn’t be that selective in his clients.
Me? You come in here doped up, bring trouble, or with an attitude, you can carry your ass right back out the door. The only thing Mom liked about me being at Ink Me so much as a kid was that it meant I wasn’t out on the streets getting into trouble or hanging with the wrong crowd. Even so, I still had to learn to hold my own, or I’d get crushed. The older I got and the more shit I saw on this side of the tracks, the tougher I became. I didn’t want to be one of those guys who was forced to do the bidding of some punk who thought he ruled the streets. I didn’t want to be the one who ruled the streets either. I just wanted to be left alone. So, I made sure I was. I didn’t look for confrontation, but I sure as shit didn’t back down from it if it was thrown in my face. From my mid-teens and on, my reputation was, you don’t fuck with me, I won’t fuck with you. But if you do fuck with me, you’ll be in a world of hurt.
Another business on this side of the tracks is Abe’s Gym, a place where I learned kickboxing and Krav Maga. It was Abe’s teachings that helped build my status of being someone to not screw with.
My reputation has carried over into Ink Me, and with that, the clientele has drastically changed for the good. With the place cleaned up, the shitheads no longer coming in, and add in that I’m a damn good artist and tattooist, business is triple what it used to be. I get people from the surrounding counties coming in, and I book up weeks in advance.
Draining the last of my coffee, I get to work on the angel/devil drawing. Time stands still for me when I sketch or I’m marking someone else’s skin. It’s relaxing and the only time I feel real peace. Even as a boy, I was good at making an image come to life on paper. There were times I’d be at our rickety kitchen table, my hands dirty with pencil lead, and my parents had to practically pry the pencil and paper from my hands to get my attention. It was the one thing I was good at. Something I was proud of.
I don’t know how much time passes before I hear the back door opening. I drop the pencil on the desk and dig the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to wipe away the scratchy feeling of not getting enough sleep the night before. Luckily, my headache has turned to a dull ache nagging in the back of my head.
Looking down at the paper in front of me, I’m surprised to see I’m almost done. Just a few tweaks here and there and then I can call the client and set a time for him to come check it over.
Hearing cabinets slam in the back room, I twist my neck from side-to-side to relieve the stiff feeling of sitting in one position for so long, then stand and stretch. After, I make my way down the hallway and find my sister grumbling to herself as she searches for something.
“It’s smashed,” I tell her, leaning against the doorway.
She whips around, clutching her chest dramatically. “Holy shit balls, Luca. You scared the hell out of me.” I give her a minute before her eyes narrow. “What do you mean, it’s smashed?”
I tip my chin to the trash can and she walks over to peer inside. “You left it on the counter, and when I came in, it fell.”
A scowl forms on her face as she looks at the remnants of her favorite coffee mug, causing her eyebrows to form a deep V. Her eyes lift to mine and she purses her lips. I point my finger at her before she has a chance to open her mouth and spew whatever shit she’s thinking.
“Save it. I’ve told you to put your shit away and you didn’t listen.”
She huffs out a breath, but keeps quiet, knowing I’m right. I’ve dealt with this for as long as I can remember. Growing up, she was always leaving her shit out around the house. Mom used to threaten to throw her stuff out if she didn’t learn to put it away. Of course, Mom never went through with it. Which meant Ella knew she could get away with it, and that’s carried over into adulthood. She kicks ass at tattoos, is damn near as good as me, and I love her, but she drives me fucking bonkers when she leaves her shit all over the place. Luckily, she keeps her work station clutter-free and clean because she knows that’s one thing I won’t put up with. We stick people with needles all day and she understands the importance of cleanliness when it comes to that. I’ve learned to pick my battles where I can.
With a mournful look at the trash can, she spins on her heel and stalks over to the cabinet that holds some Styrofoam cups and pulls one free from the stack.
“You remember I have to get off at four today, right?” she asks over her shoulder. “Vicki has that appointment I wanted to go to with her.”
“Yes.” I cross my arms over my chest and regard her. “You know it’s going to be okay, right? No matter what the tests results show.”
Her shoulders lift with her deep inhale. A moment later, she turns with both of her hands wrapped around her coffee. Leaning back against the counter, she brings the cup to her lips and blows on the hot liquid. Her eyes are downcast, but I still see the worry linger in their depths.
My sister is as hard as nails and feisty. Like me and my brother, Theo, she’s had to be with the type of neighborhood we grew up in. She’s also a brat, courtesy of my mother doting on her because she’s the youngest and her only girl, and my dad who treats her like a princess. Her persona in front of my parents is a complete one-eighty compared to h
ow she acts when she’s not around them. Not to be deceitful, but because she doesn’t want our parents to see that darker side to her that came with growing up in our neighborhood.