Chapter 5
KATIE
I could fall asleep right now. The buzz of the needle as it scratches the soft flesh of my thigh is oddly soothing. Cillian continues to work diligently, his focus unwavering, as he meticulously creates another masterpiece that I cannot wait to behold.
Hazel eyes glance up from between my legs. “You alright there, Katie?”
I nod, a drowsy smile forming on my lips.
I move just enough to glance down and see what we have so far.
Medusa’s head. The serpents that weave around, forming a garter that wraps around my thigh, have yet to be completed.
“She looks great.” A genuine smile spreads across my face as I admire Cillian’s handiwork.
I’m about to say that the scars are no longer visible, but I stop myself.
For too long, I looked at my scars with shame and regret. For too long, I had a daily reminder of what that bastard did to me—what they all did to me. Too long have I tried to hide them from judging eyes and grimace when I’m asked about them. Too damn long.
Today, I am reclaiming my power.
I no longer have to look at the marks and remember exactly what I did that day.
I don’t have to remember the mindset I was in or just how very lost I was.
How much pain I carried within me. I have enough flashbacks that haunt my dreams and invade my thoughts without having to look down and see the physical reminders of my past.
It is peculiar that although getting a tattoo feels identical to cutting into my skin, the sensation is not the same. While marring my flesh was a way to cope with my pain and emotions, getting a tattoo is a way for me to reclaim my body and create something beautiful out of my experiences.
I lean my head back on the chair, savouring the moment.
It feels like I’ve finally started a new chapter in life, making all my hard work over the last seven years worth it.
I have to thank that criminology course for setting me on the straight and narrow.
I remember the exact moment I decided to hit the brakes on my self-destructive behaviour and turn my life around.
It was during a lecture on the impact of childhood trauma on criminal behaviour.
At the time, I was self-medicating and drinking heavily, not as a form of addiction but as a way to dull the pain. To stop the memories and the cruel voices in my head telling me that I was not enough. I was not worthy of love or life.
I was a reckless idiot, indulging in risqué behaviours and taking on board any man who would have me, attraction or not.
Why would I do such things, you may ask?
I don’t know; depression can make you do some pretty fucked-up things.
Perhaps I was trying to prove that I was desirable.
Perhaps I was so desperate for validation that I went seeking it in all the wrong places.
I was so lost in my own self-doubt that I couldn’t see any other way to feel a sense of worth.
I masked my true self, believing that nobody would want me if they saw the creature that lies beneath.
So I became a chameleon, constantly changing my personality and interests to fit the mould of whoever I was with at the time.
It was exhausting, but I thought it was the only way to be accepted and loved.
No wonder I had that breakdown at twenty-six, feeling completely burned out and disconnected from my own identity.
Anyway, I’m getting off track.
That faithful day in question, the one that lit a fire under my arse and propelled me towards self-discovery, started like any other mundane day.
I woke up with a heavy heart and felt unbearably hungover, tired of living a life that wasn’t truly mine.
A fresh-faced eighteen-year-old, I was not, more like a worn-out soul desperately seeking a way out but was too chicken-shit to do it.
I dressed quietly, moving through the house like a phantom so I wouldn’t wake the thundercunt upstairs.
Here are some more facts about me.
1) I grew up in a house with two raging alcoholics.
2) I am the youngest of four children.
3) I’ve been breaking up fights with fully grown adults since I was a child.
4) I had the most overbearing and, ironically, overprotective parents imaginable.
5) Despite this, I was first sexually assaulted before I ever hit double digits.
I was also groomed by two older boys that I grew up with.
I thought they were my friends. That they cared for me.
Thus began my fucked-up cycle of thinking that sex was a way to seek validation and love.
It took me years to realise that what happened to me was not my fault and that I deserved better.
I’ve veered off course again; blame the ADHD.
Anyway, I got out of the house, got one of two buses to college, and went on with my day, eagerly awaiting the piss-up that night.
I was sitting in social studies, half-listening, half-asleep, when our lecturer began speaking of children who grow up in addictive households. It’s safe to say that got my attention.
He explained the three types of children that come out of these households: the caretaker (the eldest), the rebel (the middle child), and the lost child (the youngest).
He started with the eldest, obviously, and worked his way down.
I couldn’t help but think that he was bang on with his deductions of the twins, Michael and Anthony, or, as I call them, the test tube babies.
Michael moved out at sixteen, worked his arse off, and went to university in England; he could not get away from Tallaght quickly enough.
My relationship with him is the most strained and the most distant.
He moved out when I was only eight, and I barely saw him after that.
He was too busy working for a better life for himself, earning degree after degree—of course, he’s Mam’s golden child, and she makes a point of telling us at every opportunity.
“My Mick” could never do anything wrong.
“My Mick” couldn’t wait to get away from you, you stupid bitch.
Anthony assumed the role of the caregiver within the family.
He, too, left home at a young age, though two years after his twin.
Anthony took me to my first concert—Westlife obvs!
He took me to the hospital when I broke my foot in three places, and he let me stay with him when Mam was being a particularly nasty piece of work.
He and his girlfriend, now wife, Louise, got married early; he was twenty-one and Louise was nineteen. They got pregnant soon after, and now I have two nephews, Liam, and John.
I think Anthony was so desperate for stability that he wanted to create his own family as soon as possible.
He saw the opportunity to provide the love and support he may have felt was lacking in his own upbringing.
Becoming a father and husband at a young age allowed him to establish a sense of purpose and responsibility that gave him the stability he craved.
I just fear he may have rushed into things.
The rebel, Ciara, on the other hand, was not ready for such commitments.
She preferred her freedom and independence.
She got to work as soon as she was old enough and has been trail-blazing ever since.
She was the first one to go out clubbing every weekend; I helped her with her tan and makeup before she left.
Ciara is six years older than me, so unfortunately, I was not old enough to join her in the club scene.
She was the first of us to travel and the person to teach me everything I needed when puberty hit, because, God forbid, the beast that bore me did it.
Then there is the lost child—me.
This is about the time I became grizzly as hell.
According to studies, being the “lost child” in an addictive household meant that I often felt neglected and overlooked.
It was a lonely and isolating experience.
The lost child is known to make up elaborate stories to make their crappy life look more exciting and meaningful.
The lost child is also the one most likely to commit suicide or engage in self-destructive behaviours as a way to cope with their feelings of emptiness and isolation.
That class floored me, but somehow the follow-up class was the one that kicked me in the metaphorical bollocks.
Did you ever wonder how criminals seem to pick out their perfect prey?
How they identify vulnerable and isolated individuals?
It turns out that, due to their desperate desire for acceptance and connection, criminals and narcissists frequently target the lost child archetype.
It’s like we are a giant magnet for those who seek to exploit our vulnerabilities.
I was numb. Silently fuming that I had an invisible target painted on my back that only the most sinister of individuals could see.
Were my emotionally abusive relationships all just a coincidence?
Surely my being assaulted on several occasions throughout my life was sheer bad luck.
Yet that bastard lecturer went and said something that made me feral.
I ended up in a cycle of abusive relationships because men are scum.
I have been raped and assaulted throughout my life for those very same reasons, and he was telling me that I’m more likely to have it happen again because…
I give off some fucking pheromone that attracts predators.
That was victim-blaming at its finest—he can go fuck a goat!
Those two classes have stayed with me since I was eighteen. I’m now thirty-three, and it still haunts me.
It was the very moment I made up my mind. It’s not going to be me. Not again. I’m not going to be another fucking statistic. I’ll make sure of it. I refuse to be a victim ever again.
Unfortunately, I was still in denial about what had happened to me. I wanted to move forward but refused to look back long enough to release the chains binding me to that life.
It took another eight years of stumbling before I shattered into a million pieces on the shop floor of the Boots Store, where I used to work. It took a breakdown that took me four years to fully recover from to look back and finally confront the painful truth of my past.
I was a victim.
I had no control over what happened in my past, but I sure as hell had a say about what happened in my future. I cut ninety percent of my “friends” from my life and worked my arse off, saving up enough money to buy my own house.
Little old me is now a homeowner, and I did it all by myself.
How’s that for a lost child, bitch?
“Katie?” I feel a light nudge, and my eyes flash open. Cillian’s warm smile greets me, and I realise I fell asleep. “All done, pet.”
I look down, still shocked that I passed out. I hope I didn’t snore.
Cillian offers me a hand and brings me to the mirror, where I look at the finished result. Medusa in all of her splendour. She was once a victim too, just like me, but now she stands as a symbol of strength and resilience. I can’t stop smiling at the reflection staring back at me. “I love it!”
Cillian chuckles and says, “I’m glad you’re happy with it. You wear it well.” He lets me stand there, staring at her for a moment before he comes back to wrap it. “You know the rules at this stage. And no Hanky-Panky with himself for a day or two.”
I throw my head back and laugh somewhat manically. “There is no himself, so that won’t be a problem.”
His eyebrows shoot into his dark hairline. “You’re kidding?” He waits a beat, then presses. “Girlfriend?”
“I’m straight.”
“Ah,” he clicks his tongue, turning for the counter, and passing me the mandatory tattoo care instructions. I reach for them, and he whips them back with a mischievous grin. “No touching the tattoo for a few hours.”
“I know,” I laugh, reaching for the sheet just to have him pull it away once again. “Cillian!”
“You have my number in case you have any questions.”
I imagine I look like a confused puppy. “I don’t have your number.”
“You don’t?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.
“Well then, maybe you should give me yours?” His broad, dimpled grin is infectious, and I can’t help but smile back.
My first instinct is to refuse him, but then I think again.
I’ve known Cillian for over a year. He seems like a nice guy.
What harm could giving him my number do?
I mean, it’s not like I’m agreeing to a date or anything.
“Fine,” I smirk, snatching the paper from his hand and watching his fingers tap away at the screen as he enters my number.
My phone rings in my pocket, and I quickly pull it out to see an unknown number flash on the screen.
“Now you have mine,” Cillian says with a wink.