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There was no hope to ever be had. I had been wrong. This was as definite an answer as I would ever get: Mason had left. He intended to leave. And what’s more, he intended not to be found.
That was it.
I couldn’t go on in Vegas after that. It felt like a rotten dream. A spoiled fantasy. It was the place where I’d had everything and lost everything. There was nothing more to do there. I’d finally been accepted as myself, only to be rejected completely, as myself.
It was time for a new place. A new start. A new role for me.
New York City wasn’t kind. The jostling on the subway, the shouting on the streets, the rats and the piss and the smells from the steaming sewer drains. But there was a tiny tattoo parlour tucked between two skyscrapers and they were open late.
I showed the artist the feather. He looked shocked when I told him I wanted to cover it.
“But it’s beautiful.”
“It’s not me,” I told him.
He eyed me warily.
“And who are you then?”
I avoided the reflection of the feather in the mirror.
“I don’t know,” I said. “What can you make it into?”
The artist ran his thumb over the tattoo at the small of my back as he sighed.
“Well,” he said at last, “I think I could make it into a pair of dove wings pretty easily.”
And so I went from a fallen angel to dove.
