Epilogue
Jon
Two Months Later
“I can’t believe you’re doing this without my sister! She’s gonna kill you. And now me, too, since I’m your accomplice,” Jack says as he follows me to my appointment.
I shrug off his worries, thinking once Margeaux sees what I’ve done, she’ll forgive me pretty quickly. She gets pissed off quickly, but she’s quick to forgive.
“It’s not my fault that Zoey is detaining her for a movie and snack marathon all night. Zoey insisted they have one last girls’ night before you two take off on your honeymoon,” I say to my new brother.
He and Zoey got married last weekend, and they leave for Hawaii tomorrow evening.
Margeaux and I fly back to Paramount tomorrow as well.
It’s been nice to have some time away, and Margeaux really enjoys reconnecting with her family.
Her mom still doesn’t quite understand why Margeaux wrestles and puts herself in harm’s way, but she sees how happy her daughter is happy and she’s backed off with the discouraging comments.
Margeaux has a few weeks until she has to start getting back into serious training, so she’s going to spend all that time with me, in Paramount.
Construction on the new training facility is officially underway.
It’s amazing how fast things can move when you throw enough money at the project.
Margeaux being in Paramount for a few weeks will also include her doing interviews to talk about the new PEW training facility and the world of entertainment wrestling.
There has been some pushback from the elitists living in Fructose Hills, worried having such a violent sport in Paramount will increase crime or debauchery.
Frankie countered a lot of their arguments with how the new facility has already been increasing job opportunities for the lower income communities around Paramount, like Divine Springs.
I’m quickly learning that you can’t make everyone happy, and that’s okay.
My beautiful woman is happy, and that’s all I care about.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jack asks as we walk up to the small, but highly recommended tattoo shop. It’s the same one Margeaux got her first tattoo, so it seemed fitting for me to get mine here, too.
“Never been more sure of anything.” I confidently open the door, a low beep goes off, alerting the staff we just walked in.
A middle-aged guy, with long, dark hair, with streaks of gray, pulled into a low bun, gets up from behind the counter. He’s a couple inches taller than I am, but skinny, and covered in ink. Everything, from his knuckles to his neck, and I’m sure under his t-shirt and pants are more crazy designs.
“Which one of you is Jon?” he asks, walking toward us.
“He is,” Jack says nervously, holding his hands up. “My wife would kill me if I got a tattoo.” I notice his face blush as he refers to Zoey as his wife. I bet it feels really nice to say.
“I’m Walt. Come on back.” He shakes my hand and leads us to his station. It’s still the early afternoon, so other artists are working on their clients. A young woman is getting what looks like a butterfly tattoo on her foot. She’s cursing the whole time and white knuckling the arms of her chair.
A group of teenagers watches their friend get a nose ring at another station.
“Have a seat and I’ll grab the stencil I had made,” Walt says.
“Do, uh. Do you need me to hold your hand during this?” Jack asks.
I shove his shoulder and he snickers. A sharp pang in my chest strikes me as I wonder if this is what my and Jacob’s relationship would have been like if he were still here. Jack is a great brother and friend and has helped fill some of the void I’ve carried since Jacob died all those years ago.
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. Maybe keep talking to me so I’m distracted.”
Walt comes back with translucent paper where he drew the artwork I sent him. We spoke for a while, making sure the size and design was just right.
“Will it hurt?” Jack asks, like he’s the one getting a needle dragged across his skin.
Walt shrugs as he takes out a small shaving kit and gets to work on removing all the extra hairs and dead skin on my upper left arm.
“Everyone’s different. This spot doesn’t hurt too bad. If you were gonna get your first tat on your chest, I’d try to persuade you to consider a different spot.”
“Does the chest hurt the worst?” Jack keeps the questions coming like a little kid.
“I mean, it hurts more than the arm. Less muscle. It’s also a spot you’ll always see. People will always see. So, if you end up not liking the artwork after a while, a lot of people wish they got a different area tatted.”
I actually considered getting this artwork on my chest. It seemed fitting considering the design and the meaning behind it.
After explaining the design to Walt, he convinced me to move it to my arm, telling me I may want to add to it over time.
I thought about it for a day or so, and my heart ached thinking about what it would mean to add to this design, but he’s right.
This is just the first, and I’m proud to carry this memory with me.
Walt finishes cleaning my arm and places the stencil, checking with me if I like the positioning and size.
“It’s perfect,” I say, already getting choked up. It’s exactly like I remember.
Jack leans forward in his chair and squints. “What is it?”
I chuckle while Walt gets all the colors he’ll need.
“It’s a heart.”
“That’s a heart? Why does it look…wrong?” he asks, tilting his head, trying to figure out if it really is a heart. Granted, the image contains gross anatomy, so I’m not surprised that Jack can’t immediately identify it as a heart.
“It’s a heart with hypoplastic left heart syndrome,” I answer.
“In English, please.”
“Ready?” Walt asks, needle prepped and in his gloved hand.
I nod for him to begin, and the first contact stings and surprises me. It hurts, but nothing I can’t withstand.
I decide educating Jack is a good distraction from the stinging discomfort I’m feeling.
“I lost a patient a few months back. This is what his heart looked like. It was a difficult case, and we did everything we could, but we couldn’t save him.”
“Fuck, dude. I didn’t. I mean. I know you work with sick kids. I’m sorry,” Jack says.
“Nothing to apologize for. His memory will remind me to work harder and try to be even better for the next kid. I promised his mother I’d never forget him. So, yea.”
“Lost my nephew to pediatric cancer three years ago. Fucking gutted our entire family. We all got his name and something special about him tattooed,” Walt chimes in. “Pretty fucking badass of you, Doc.”
“Call me Jon,” I request. Doc is reserved for my beautiful, reckless stunner.
The three of us sit in a morose, yet soothing silence as Walt continues. The needle buzzes and eventually, the stinging pain fades and becomes somewhat pleasant. I can see why people want more tattoos after their first.
A couple of hours go by, and the shop has new people coming and going. Walt tells me he’s almost finished. I’ve practically dozed off, feeling so relaxed in the chair. He wipes my arm, cleaning it of any ink and blood.
“Go take a look.” He nods his head at the full-length mirror next to his station. I extend my arm, trying to ignore the redness all around the fresh design.
I don’t fight the tears that pool in my eyes, not ashamed of remembering the sweetest kid who deserved a better, longer life.
“It’s perfect.” I admire it for another minute or so, appreciating the precise linework that Walt did. I made sure to pick an artist who was skilled with realistic artwork, and Walt has certainly gained my trust and adoration.
Walt puts a thin layer of antiseptic cream over the fresh ink and wraps it in a bandage. He extends his tattooed hand for me to shake and says, “If you ever need to add to it, I hope you come back here. At the same time, I hope that’s the last tattoo I do for that piece.”
I nod in understanding, tears still silently falling down my face. Walt’s hazel eyes are also glassy.
I peel the bandage down and take one more look at the beautiful memory of Sammy, the champ.