Chapter 34
thirty-four
. . .
Felix
We spend hours wrapped up in each other’s arms and then I let her sleep for an hour. Rest is what you need to heal people say.
That’s bullshit.
I watched my mother lie in bed for weeks staring at the ceiling, and it didn’t help.
“Felix, where are we going,” Eden asks, her voice soft and defeated. “I just want to sleep.”
“And you will, but you need to do this first,” I say, picking her up.
She doesn’t protest as I carry her down the stairs to my studio. Her hair is still damp from the shower, and I can’t help but breathe in her scent.
Walking over to my workstation, I place Eden in the chair and then turn on my light. The blinds are closed on all the windows so no one randomly walking or driving by will get a show.
Eden looks up at me.
“You’re going to tattoo me now? I…I can’t,” she mumbles, trying to get off the chair, but I hold her down.
“Eden, do you trust me?”
Her pretty eyes slowly lift to mine.
“Yes.”
“Then trust me now.”
She takes a deep breath, and I wait for her to relax.
I’ve debated whether her tattoo should be as colorful and bright as the subject, but I think black-only is better.
Even though she just showered, I roll up the sleeve on her shirt, clip it in place, and then methodically clean and shave her arm before wiping it all away. Eden watches me with the same curiosity that a cat might watch a bird. Focused, a little twitchy, ready to spring into action and run.
Her nerves are fried, and she’s sad, but I plan on helping her with that right now.
“Did you know that many researchers believe that body art serves as a deeply therapeutic coping mechanism to process emotional pain and visually externalize trauma?”
I keep my voice soothing as I massage the transfer gel onto her skin.
“Really? How is that?”
“Pain is complicated and unique to each of us. But when the needle passes over your skin, it creates microtrauma, and your brain is triggered.”
“Triggered doesn’t sound like what I need at the moment.”
I smirk.
“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.