Page 124 of Pretty Thing

“Let me finish.”

Eden relaxes into the chair as I place the transfer on her left arm.

“Your brain floods your body with natural painkillers. The chemical rush brings a physical relief, an emotional release, and grounds you.”

I peel away the stencil, leaving behind garish purple lines. I’ve drawn a full sleeve, but for now, I’ll just do the outline. Then, whenever she needs a session, I can fill in the details until it comes to life.

“What I’ve created for you will transform your skin and create a visible representation of your internal battle. It’s a monument of survival. Because you did survive, Eden.”

She takes a shuddering breath, and a single tear slips free, leaving a wet streak on her cheek.

“Is that why you became a tattoo artist? Do you find it therapeutic?”

I think about her question.

“Yes, partially. I also love creating something personal that people wear as visibly as clothing. Once they are gone…the piece goes with them. It makes my art feel special.”

Before starting, I grab my phone and turn on the music. I’ve created a playlist for this day. It has all of her parents’ favorite songs. When the first one starts, she looks at me with bottled emotion ready to explode.

I finish setting up my station as her tears fall. She quietly weeps away the pain inside of her while I put on a pair of gloves. Peeling open a new needle cartridge, I insert it into my grip and twist until it locks. Then I turn on the machine, and a familiar hum fills the air.

“Don’t move, just relax,” I whisper.

I draw my first line, then wipe away the residue.

“Let the needle do the work now. For weeks, you’ve been carrying a heavy weight as you try to hold everything together. But here in my hands you don’t need to be strong.”

Eden’s head drops back against the chair, her eyes closed.

“Every bite of the needle is a deliberate exhumation that drags the cold grief from the marrow of your bones and transforms it into something beautiful. Something morbidly permanent. Let the ink drown out the silence of what you’ve lost and bind you to the world of the living.”

Tears flow from her eyes as the music, the machine, and the physical pain pull the emotional pain out of her.

“Breathe through the agony and lean into me. Let me be the anchor in the storm that keeps you from floating away in the dark sea. Hear my voice and know that I will never leave you. I will always be here, ready, willing, and able to help or protect you.”

Eden’s chest heaves as she lets go of everything she’s been trying too hard to control. I understand her. Maybe not in the same way, but my father was dead to me long before he went to jail.

I can still feel his hands grabbing me, trying to break my bones. I can still feel the terror of being locked in the pantry for days with nothing but fruit cups to sustain me. I can’t taste a peach without wanting to gag.

Tattooing is my safe space, and Eden is my home.

Eden’s eyes flutter open, and I pause.

“You’re mine, Pretty Thing. Mine unconditionally and forever. Make no mistake…I will carve my name into your soul if the skin on your arm is not deep enough. Because my love for you is not a choice, it’s an obsession, and it will outlive our mortal bodies.”

We stare at each other for a long moment, the air charged between us like we’ve captured lightning in a bottle and lived to tell the tale.

“I love you, too,” Eden finally whispers.

Turning back to my work, I hum the next song that comes on, memorizing the moment Eden falls asleep under my gun. It is the moment she officially surrenders and places her heart in my hands.

thirty-five

​. . .​

Eden

New tattoos are irritating. I forgot all about that part. Even after two days of healing, it feels like I spent the whole day out in the sun. The aftercare and ointment that Felix uses helps the sting some, but it’s still all I can focus on.