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The memories suddenly rush over me as I stand by the bed and watch Callie.
Getting tattoos is torture.
“Nothing intricate. No straight lines, bro. The smooth skin patches can be done with designs, yes, but the ridges and grooves will work better with solid color and bold shapes.”
The voice of the tattooist is monotonous. But my heart is pounding. The guy was highly recommended, used by outlaws and ex-prisoners.
“I’ve done a dude who had ninety percent of his skin scarred after an explosion,” the tattooist explains. “So you will be a piece of cake. If you can afford it. More importantly, if you can handle the pain.”
Oh, I can handle fucking pain. It’s nothing compared to the horrified stares of several chicks who ended up in my bed after the accident and saw glimpses of my scars. When you are a monster, you can’t show up anywhere like this. No beach. Forget being shirtless. Turtlenecks and scarves in the winter. Long sleeves in the heat of the summer. Neck to knees—my backside and left side look like someone chewed me up and spat me out. Thank God for my face and dick that were left untouched.
So do I care if my new skin comes with pain?
Well, the tattooist is right. Because when the needle touches my scars, it’s like a razor slicing through my flesh with excruciating slowness.
But the worst pain is the memories. One in particular. Looking at myself in the mirror at the hospital after they took the bandages off for the first time.
It still haunts me sometimes. Though the nightmares were replaced with the grief of losing my family when the Change happened.
Perhaps Callie was right. Lucky means not seeing your loved ones die in front of you, slowly and painfully.
When another whimper comes from Callie, and her entire body trembles, I understand it now. Her memories are monsters.
I want to chase them away.
I am not sure I know how, but the girl took my heart in her hands a long time ago and still holds it, squeezes it gently but tightly every minute I spend with her.
I hate it.
And I can’t stop myself.
She is the reminder of the worst but also the best in my life. She makes me feel things that unravel my dark heart and, for a brief moment, make me forget hate and grief. I want to feel something besides hopelessness.
With Callie, I feel strangely alive. I want to cherish every moment of her next to me because I know—there will be a time she will leave.
So I turn off the light, get in the bed next to Callie, press close to her, and wrap my arm around her.
She stills when I do so, but her breathing is even.
“Goodnight,” I whisper, knowing she is asleep.
I close my eyes and sink into the feeling of her in my arms when a barely audible whisper comes from her:
“Goodnight.”
31
CALLIE
When I open my eyes,the room is too bright.
I overslept.
I sit up and look around.
Kai is gone. I am pretty sure he slept in the bed with me. And I am pretty sure I didn’t dream about him spooning with me.
I smile and bite my lip.
