I don’t know how to begin this “little” tale of mine; it feels as if I’m making a joke out of the situation by calling it “little,” but that’s what everyone in my life refers to it as. That’s only because they weren’t present when it happened; I don’t expect second-handers to understand, anyway.
Everyday I wake up and hate myself. The mirrors that I used to stare in, dolling myself up with a joyous smile were covered. I try to keep up appearances to not make people concerned, but daily, someone has to point out an error. “Oh, dear your makeup is smudge,” or “your hair is sticking out.” I play it off as waking up late and rushing, but I believe that excuse is wearing thin. I can’t even sleep in my bed like I used to. “A bear in hibernation” is what my friends used to refer to me as, but closing my eyes is an act I wouldn’t wish upon anyone.
I sit in front of cameras daily as reporters get me to recount the story; it happened years ago, yet they still bring it up. Despite the career I have as an actor and activist, they never want to know what I’m currently doing until it’s close to ending. No matter how the words leave — no word straying from what happened, no exaggeration made to gain sympathy points as my eyes glaze over in a daze, mind trying to distance itself from the reoccurring memories while simultaneously digging them up like a madwoman — people always act interested and give the same words of encouragement and condolences. I know they don’t care anymore and that I’m being used as some paper woman for a cause. I know people want to hear different things, yet my throat closes whenever I try to suggest another topic, like I’m only made to repeat the damn story for the rest of my life.
Finishing up interviews gives me a breath of relief; I feel free, yet trapped altogether. I want a break, but I fear if I try to gain one, I’ll be viewed as someone who doesn’t care and is only using it for my own gain rather than to help prevent. I want to prevent, but I also want to drown in a bottle and hope I don’t come to; it’s hard to decide what’s more important.
At dinner, once the news comes back about the interview being a success, everyone is giddy, knowing that their moneymaker doesn’t need replacing. Even my friends who I confide in are heavy in laughter, nearly doubling over the table at whatever piss poor joke leaked from my mother’s mouth. Despite knowing the effect everything had, they always make jokes out of it, like it’s something deserving in a comedic hall. I believe it’s my fault it’s gotten this far, anyway; I never tried to stop or correct them when they over exaggerated — or under explain — some parts of the story. There wasn’t anything in me that cared, like I’ve become numb to the things I once preached to a choir about. It’s funny. I was vocal about a lot of things. Now, the moment someone mentions the event with more humor than dignity, it’s like a zipper is superglued zipped in my throat.
‘His death isn’t funny!’ is what I want to tell them, ‘he was the love of my life!’ I need to scream, ‘he loved you all!’ I wish to plead. None of the words leave, and I truly understand one thing: I’m pathetic…
That bottle does look rather appetizing now.
I sit awkwardly in the chair of the tattoo parlor. Everyone leaving in either joy or tears as the chair beneath me feels colder and harder to sit on. I fidget slightly, my hands gripping the chair as if I’d fall from such small movements. I don’t know what I’m doing here; I only heard of the rumors and they seemed false, but the more I see people react, the more my mind back peddles.
‘It’s just ink on skin,’ I’d tell myself, ‘all fortune tellers are shit, anyway.’ The words would fill my brain to keep me seated. ‘If this was some “miracle” working, wouldn’t people complain more?’ I’d reason, and the hair standing on legs soothed themselves against my skin once more. I haven’t seen or heard of people complaining about whatever their findings are, so they must’ve seen how bullshit this is, and just kept content with the cool tat. Yep, that must’ve been it.
The next person to leave is a younger fellow…dyed hair and dead eyes. A new tattoo on his arm covered with protective film; it depicts a nameless tombstone. Whether it was his or not, I didn’t care; the instant the receptionist told me he was ready, my hands grew sweaty and breathing didn’t feel right. I stood on stiff legs, robotically walking over as I flashed a quick smile. Everything was going to be okay. Stepping past the blinds into the decently lit room, there stood the artist.
Dark brown hair hung from his shoulders; clothing was baggy, yet form fitting around the wrists and ankles, and most importantly, the man was even deader-looking than the guy who just left. His breathing was shallow as he adjusted in his seat.
“If you want to leave, you can.” My body urged me to leave, and who was I to not listen? I took one look around the room, seeing all the art pieces on the wall before spotting something. My eyes widened, breath quickening in shaky rhythms.
“How did you know about that…?” I pointed; in the wall, hung the lowest was a drawing depicting someone getting shot — my friend getting–
“That one?” he inquired, pointing, “a nice lady entered, determined to see her fate.”
“J-Juliana…” my breaths shook as tears welled in my eyes. Face pale, I felt the urge to throw up; he shouldn’t have known that — no one should’ve known–
“So?” Eyes wide, I shake my head, nearly tripling out the room as I run away. The bell rings, but I don’t hear the full melody before the door shuts and I’m out of the establishment, quickly trying to unlock my car door. Once I’m inside, I rest my head against the steering wheel, calming my breaths as I stare at my hands.
Little stars decorated the knuckles; the same stars in that drawing. I wanted nothing more than to rip my skin off as I rub at my eyes. Why did I come here? To prove imbeciles wrong? Well, how did that turn out? I sigh heavily, coughing slightly as the breath fully escapes like it was clawing my throat to stay inside. Flinching, I look to the side to see the man standing at my window, his pointer finger knocking at my window tauntingly, maniacally grinning. I rolled the window down to tell him off.
“I could provide you relief of this pain,” his eyes held intent in it I’ve never seen in a person before; the screech of “get the hell away!” died down in my throat, “you know what you did, but who’s to say it’ll come back to haunt you?” My vision blurs slightly before it registers I’m crying.
“You’re crazy!”
“I’m not the one who killed their best friend.” Lips trembling, I thought of what to say before keeping a tight line; I had no rebuttals.
“How would… that fix this?”
“Who knows? Everyone’s fate is different, after all.”
“…would I be able to change what I don’t like…? Is fate even changeable?” The words are weak, a pathetic attempt at straw-grabbing.
“Only when you’re not aware of it; once it’s engraved into you, it becomes you; you have to live with it, have to live with it creeping up your bones and crawling within your skin and flesh.” The man leaned closer, “there’s no changing it once it’s you.” I bit my lip, thinking of my options; I could flip him off and drive away, or be an idiot.
“I mean, I’ll just call the police if you disagree; you are a criminal.” Glaring at him, I gave in, getting out my car, shoes hitting the cracked road as I followed the calm man inside. Sitting down at his station, watching as he wiped my leg with alcohol, my heart quickened; my mind telling me to get up and run, yet my body stayed no matter how hard I pushed.
Hours passed as I tried not to stare at the developing ink. Hands itchy from sweat and eyes too unfocused to care. It was only when he pushed his chair back, clearing his throat to gain my attention, did I look down.
…
I didn’t know how to react; it was comical. Funny. I was laughing, just not on the outside as I stared at the drawing gifted to me; the drawing of the fate meant to befall me.
“…is this fate?” I mumbled, following the inky lines, “it’s cruel.”
“Yet fair,” I looked up to meet the man’s eyes; I don’t even know his name. Does anyone? He grinned once again as he leaned closer, “good luck.”
“Good luck,” what a joke; it was pointless to wish such a thing about an otherworldly system. My body moved blindly as I slid out the chair. I felt numb, yet my limbs felt alive. Heart beating regularly, I handed the rest of my pay to the guy before walking out. Oh, there’s someone sitting out in the lobby; they seem nervous. Our eyes meet, and they wither away; do I look scary right now? I find it odd that I don’t care. Leaving the shop, I just stand there. My limbs don’t want to move and my brain isn’t working other than to feed me buzzes. I’m calm, oddly enough.
Subconsciously, I bring my hand up to my shoulder and squeeze it. Nothing. The sound of an engine coming closer instincts me to move. I step out, then there’s flashes as I tumble out onto the road. The full sound of screams surround me as I hear a car door open and out comes the man from earlier with the tombstone tat; he appears dazed before he comes to. I watch, blurry, in time as his expression morphs into one of distraught and fear, his body rushes forward to try and help me, shouting something about staying awake, but my mind gives and I go limp. I believe that’s the last time I opened my eyes.
Had I still been alive, I’d see the nameless tombstone was my own; had I still been alive, I’d know the man was sent to jail for driving “under the influence” and vehicle manslaughter, and once he was released, he’d spend the rest of his days visiting my grave as some form of apology and self-torture. But I’m not, and honestly, I don’t know if what I mentioned above is what happened; I’m no longer there, after all.
The heartache of her anguished screams shook me to my core as she begged over and over for me to not leave, yet I couldn’t even look at her. The years we’ve spent together, all the intimacy shared between us, sexual or not, were no longer the illusioned carnations I thought them to be, but dust to choke on when in desperate need of water. Why she screams at me when she did me dirty? I hadn’t a clue, but that didn’t stop me from second guessing myself as my heart begged me to stay, the pleas of voice and muscle mixing together, creating an unpleasant feeling as my brain fought against them both in its own plea to leave.
