Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
“Wear your heart on your skin in this life.”
― Sylvia Plath
Jade
23 years old
Seven years ago
I lined up the powder on the table with the man’s business card, smoothing it out until it formed a perfectly straight line. Setting the card down, I leaned forward, pressing one finger against my right nostril. With the other, I inhaled sharply.
The powder burned its way up my nose and hit the back of my throat like fire.
My eyes clenched shut as the familiar wave of relief washed over me, and I let out a long sigh, sinking back against the couch.
The cold tiles beneath me chilled my legs, but I didn’t care.
Tiny stars flickered in my vision as the weight in my chest lifted, leaving nothing but a strange, hollow lightness behind.
Six months out of the psych ward.
A whole year spent there trying to heal , trying to rebuild myself, to become something better.
I almost laughed at the thought—what a fucking joke. All it had done was nurture a darkness in my chest, one I hadn’t even known could exist.
Now I tried to smother it in whatever way I could—sex, adrenaline, cocaine.
Sometimes it worked. Most times, it didn’t.
And in those moments, when the darkness clawed its way to the surface, nothing called to me louder than the sharp edge of a razor blade.
“Alright, get up.” His rough voice cut through the haze. “My wife’s comin’ home sooner than expected, and the last thing I need is for her to find you here. She’ll chew my ear off for days.”
I groaned, struggling to push myself upright. My balance was off, and I stumbled slightly.
“You’re such a piece of shit, you know that? You don’t even deserve her.”
He smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “That’s not what you said last week, babe. Besides, I’m a catch. She’s the lucky one, not me.”
I laughed bitterly, grabbing my jacket from where it had landed on the floor. “Right. A middle-aged asshole having a crisis, hanging out with girls half his age, handing out coke and booze so he can pretend he’s not an old, washed-up loser. Total dream husband.”
His smirk faltered for a second, and I felt a flicker of satisfaction. He recovered quickly, tossing my shoes toward me.
“Whatever you say, babe. Now hurry the fuck up and go.”
I shoved my feet into my shoes, not bothering to tie them properly, and yanked my jacket over my shoulders.
I turned to leave, but not before throwing one last glance at him.
“You’re pathetic,” I said, voice flat, before stepping out the door.
But really, I was the pathetic one hanging with a stranger who sells me highs.
The apartment stairs creaked under my weight as I made my way down to the street. The air was icy cold, cutting through my foggy mind.
I started walking, my destination clear—the tattoo shop.
The streets were busy now, people rushing home from their nine-to-five jobs, returning to their loved ones.
Family.
The word lodged itself in my chest like a shard of glass. I stopped halfway down an alley, leaning against the brick wall to catch my breath. My hands shook as I closed my eyes, trying to push the word away, but it stuck there, stubborn and cruel.
Family.
The ones I loved, but constantly hurt.
The ones I’d lost—not just my sister, whose death had shattered something vital inside me, but the rest of them too. Not because they’d left, but because I’d pushed them away.
Grief consumed me, guilt weighed me down, and shutting them out seemed safer than letting them see the wreckage inside.
Family binds us by blood, weaving an invisible vow to stay together. But when she had died, it felt like that cord had snapped, and I’d been cutting the frayed edges ever since.
I swallowed hard and forced my legs to move, ignoring the tightness in my chest.
The tattoo shop wasn’t far. Just fifteen more minutes.
Fifteen minutes, and I could forget it all again.
“You’re late,” Jasmine said flatly, not even glancing up as she poured herself a cup of coffee.
Jasmine Miller.
We’d been inseparable in high school—cheerleading together, devouring greasy burgers and strawberry milkshakes every Wednesday after practice, gossiping about boys and dreaming up the futures we’d both believed we deserved.
But life had kicked us hard.
She’d married her high school boyfriend fresh out of graduation, and he’d turned out to be a monster. The abuse had ended when he was arrested for domestic violence, but not before he left her with a baby to raise on her own—a little girl she named Star.
Now she was the only tattoo artist in Bay Village, turning pain into art for anyone who walked through her door.
I followed her as she gestured toward the back room, her shop smelling faintly of ink and antiseptic. She closed the door behind us while I slipped off my jacket, draping it over a rickety coat rack.
I settled onto the tattoo chair, the leather cold against my skin.
“Yeah, sorry, I got caught up with work,” I lied smoothly.
She let out a heavy sigh, turning her honey-brown eyes on me. Her gaze flicked over my face, zeroing in on my pupils. They must’ve been blown wide, judging by the way her lips tightened before she spun around to her computer.
Clicking through a few screens, she finally pulled up the design we’d discussed.
The dragon glared at me from the screen—fierce and alive, its bold black lines coiled into vivid swirls of color that would crawl across my back, its tail curling just above the dimples at my spine.
A dragon to mark my transformation.
Not just a rebirth—a reckoning.
The new me, built from fire and pain.
“Still sure you wanna do this, Jade?” Jasmine asked, turning her head just enough to catch my gaze.
“Yes.”
She studied me for a beat, then shook her head. “You know it’s gonna hurt like hell. It’ll take at least six hours, and that’s just for the outlines. You’ll have to come back in a month for the color, and that’ll hurt even worse.”
“Perfect,” I replied, without missing a beat.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, and for a second, I thought she might call me out. But instead, she sighed again and nodded, pulling on a pair of gloves.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s do this.”
I slipped off my top and bra, setting them aside before lying face down on the leather chair. The cold surface pressed against my skin, and I felt the antiseptic wipe glide over my back, cool and clinical. She carefully aligned the stencil, smoothing it into place before stepping back to inspect her work.
The buzz of the tattoo machine filled the silence.
I closed my eyes as the needle met my skin, the first sting sharp enough to pull a hiss from my lips. But I stayed still, letting the sensation wash over me.
I welcomed the pain.
Welcomed it like an old friend.
Because for those hours, the darkness in my head went quiet, retreating into the corners of my mind. All I could feel was the sting, the burn, the steady rhythm of the needle carving the dragon into my flesh.
And for a little while, that was enough.