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It's an old piece. A self-portrait. It was right after the accident. When I carried around the weight of it on my shoulders twenty-four seven.
It's a lighter burden now, but it's still there.
My parents died thinking I was worthless.
My last words to them were about how awful they were.
"When did you do this?" She runs her fingers over the faded paper.
"Forever ago."
She nods as she looks up at me. "It's beautiful. But sad."
I'm not sure what to say. I don't share my work with people. Tattoos are someone else's blood and guts. I can show the entire world that.
"There's a lot of hurt there," she whispers. "Do you still feel like that?"
"Less, but yeah."
"I'm sorry. It must have been hard, everything with your parents. And taking care of Em."
"Taking care of Em was the only thing that kept me going."
She turns over so she's on her side. "You're sweet."
I shake my head.
She nods. "You hide it well, but you are."
Her words twist something in my gut. She sees too much of me. More than I can handle. "You can't talk your way out of this."
"This?"
I nod to her purple notebook, the one sitting on her desk.
"Oh." Her cheeks flush. "Right now?"
"Right now." I let my fingertips brush her hip. Her side. "Why are you up so late?"
"School starts tomorrow." She pushes herself to her feet. Grabs the journal. Hugs it to her chest. "I can't sleep."
"Change is always scary."
She nods. "You seem to roll with it."
"What ever changes in my life?"
"Emma's hair color."
I can't help but chuckle.
She climbs back into bed. Brushes her fingers against my upper arm. Then she's tracing the lines of the tattoo going down to my elbow. "This. It's new."
"Depends on your definition of new."
"You're like Em with her hai
r. You look different every time I see you."
