Twisting Fate Read online

  I get that feeling again as if I'm not alone. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck and arms stand up. I really need to get a grip and check back in with reality before I end up in one of those padded rooms by myself. What's even stranger is for a moment some of the pain begins to dwindle. It's like someone is protecting me, but I can't see them. I refuse to freak myself out. I believe in the existence of angels and demons because I believe in God, but I just can't believe in ghosts or spirits being left behind when their bodies parish. Maybe I need to go back to bed. Clearly my mind is way out in left field. I'm upset and hurt and my emotions are all over the place.

  I stand for a moment before I can make myself walk away. Have you ever wished you could just pick one moment in your life and press rewind, so you can go back and change it? I would go back to the night I bought those tickets and press delete or even change my mind the morning he asked me to go with him. Both ways would bring us to one outcome, dead or alive; together. I walk closer to the headstone, bend down and kiss the jagged stone. "Bye, Brey. Always remember you're my one and only. No one will ever replace you. You have my heart and my soul, leaving the only thing remaining as being my body. Don't miss me too much." I run my fingertips along the top and turn to leave, unsure of where I want to go from here.

  ***

  My parents pull into the driveway of our house and come to a stop after easing into the open garage. I dart from the car and run towards my room without stopping. People, including my family, are the last ones I want to be around right now. My clothes feel like they are strangling me. I need to get them off. Stripping down to nothing but my underwear, I pull back the covers and slide into bed. Grabbing the cologne from the bedside table, I spritz my pillow and wrap myself around the pillow letting his scent take me back to another moment in time; a happier one and one I didn't have to pretend in.

  Laying here thinking of him and crying uncontrollably, wishing I could be in his arms, makes me escape from where I am mentally. I can feel the darkness swirling around me and pulling me towards it; begging me to give in. I've always been a good girl and never wanted to get into trouble. Breyson made me glad I was that kind of girl. He cherished me. I was his everything, his all. With him there was no planning for the future like I've known all my life. When I was with him I was content to live in the here and now. I loved to live in the light. In life there are things that make us thrive; motivate us to be better than ordinary. Breyson was that for me.

  I'm lost right now. My heart is missing, my brain is confused and my soul is weeping because it's no longer in the presence of its mate. I've hit the ultimate bottom and I don't know how to climb out. What happens when you take a junkie and put him in confinement without his drug of choice? He gets mean, sick, out of his mind and will do anything to get it back, even if it means hurting someone else unintentionally just to get that high one more time. The problem is, that one more time turns into another and then another. There is no one more time. It's something he has become dependent on; gotten used to that blissful state of mind and won't break the addiction, because all he can remember is the way it makes him feel, consequences be damned.

  I'm the junkie and Breyson is my drug. The situation is that I've been placed in a rehab facility against my will and my drug was taken from me, forcing me to cut ties. My body is going through withdrawals and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to replace the euphoria that it made me feel. My mind processes one piece of information and shuts out the rest. I need something to take its place, to forget what I can't have and nothing will stand in my way. Like my favorite song, that thought gets stuck on repeat until I can't think of anything else. It becomes a disease. I have to go find that replacement.

  I throw off the covers and stand. I've been laying here in a daze for hours, afraid to go to sleep; terrified of what I may or may not see when I get to dreamland. I just need to get out of here and do something to take my mind off of things. It's late and I'll have to sneak out, because my mom isn’t going to welcome me taking off so late at night. I pull on a pair of leggings and a tunic as well as my boots. I finish with my short denim jacket and grab my purse from my small desk. Walking quietly to my bedroom door, I take a deep breath to relieve the nervous build up in my gut. I've never snuck out of my house before. Turning the knob, I ease the door open and peek my head out.

  The hallway is dark except for the night light mom keeps plugged in by the bathroom. I can hear my dad snoring, clueing me in that they are sound asleep. Mom has had to get used to dad's snoring over the years so she can sleep through anything. I'm good to go. I quietly shut my door, tip toe down the hall, and down the stairs to the front door.

  When I get behind the wheel, I sit in the dark silence for a moment. Where am I going to go? I'm not sure, but I really don't care at the moment. I start the engine and pull out of the driveway as slow as possible to avoid revving the engine and waking my parents. I drive down the road, letting it guide me to where, I don't know. Life is full of roads like the one in front of me. Some take you to places you don't want to go and some lead you in directions that end in happily ever afters. The only choice we're given is to trust it and let it guide us. What are the people like me and Macie supposed to do that end up on a dead end?

  Not even thinking, I turn into a tattoo parlor that’s still open not far from the local college campus. Removing my wallet from my purse, I pull the keys from the ignition and open the car door. I step out of my Range Rover and walk toward the entrance. As I open the swinging glass door, the bell above the door chimes. The last time I was in one of these shops, it was my birthday and I wanted to surprise Breyson. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for this trip. I shouldn't have been so quick to judge Konnor. Maybe he was right and the needle will relieve some of the pain. I need a filter.

  The buildup of pain is kind of like when electricity strikes something. It runs through the object like a portal, but it always has to have an exit. I need to find my exit before it destroys me. I can no longer house this much pain; a ground is a necessity. I begin looking around at the posters on the wall that are covered in various premade designs.

  I glance over when I hear footsteps sound across the stone floor. A guy covered in tattoos comes walking towards the front counter. He's lean and attractive; his body is like a masterpiece. He has chocolate brown hair; short, but spiked with gel and green eyes with a ring of brown surrounding the green. He looks mysterious, like he has his own skeletons in his closet. I watch him walk towards me. He has slightly gauged out ears and an eyebrow ring. His jeans are loose fitting, but not too big and his band tee shirt hugs his sculpted torso. "Can I help you?" I turn back to the poster in front of me.

  I can tell he is right behind me by the closeness in his voice. His voice is raspy like a singer and from the looks of him he belongs in a band. "I need a tattoo," I say, as I turn around to meet him eye to eye. I don't waste any time. I'm here for one thing and one thing only. His eyes skim my body from top to bottom. When his face locks with mine he looks like he is looking at a ghost. He hesitates for a moment and then he breaks out in a smile.

  "What'd you have in mind?" He appears to be in his early twenties, but no older than twenty-five. I begin to think about what exactly it is that I want. He walks behind the counter and bends over, leaning on his forearms.

  "I want a heart on my left ribcage being pierced by a commercial airplane. I want it realistic and on the heart I want the initials B.P.A. I want script above and below it. I want it to read, my heart died with you, February 3, 2014." His eyes change; to what I can't be sure, but I have a feeling it's that he gets it without having to ask anything else.

  He stands upright and glances down at a brown, leather cuff that encircles his wrist. He rubs over the lettering that is burned into the leather. I’m not sure what it says from this distance, but it looks sentimental. When he looks back up he doesn’t look me in the eyes this time. Instead, he points his head in the direction of the back. "Come on. I think I can handle
that."

  I follow behind him through the doorway that leads to the tattoo stations lining each side of the room. It looks like we're the only two here. Given it's a weekend night, I'm sure most people my age and his are at the local bars and clubs or even frat row. The floor is black and white checkerboard pattern. Lining each wall is built in stations with black leather chairs that recline on demand. On the furthest wall is a black table covered in the same leather padding as the chairs. It reminds me of a doctors' office, but I guess it's for tattoos that require laying flat.

  He continues walking toward the table and stops then pats the top for me to sit, so I do as instructed. "I'll be right back." He disappears into a doorway and the pain is beginning to build again. I feel like I'm drowning and I can't swim. No matter how much I try to stay afloat, the depths pull me under before I’m able to gasp for air.

  After a few moments he returns with a bottle of amber liquid and a small glass. Sitting the glass on top of the table, he pours a small amount. "I don't usually tattoo someone that has consumed any amount of alcohol, because it thins the blood needed for clotting, but you look like you need this." The torment is eating me alive, causing me physical pain as it tries to make its way out of my body. Any amount of relief is better than none.

  Without thought, I grab the glass and press it to my lips. Tilting my head back I let the liquid run down the back of my throat leaving a burn in its wake. Looking him in the eyes, I set the glass back on top of the countertop. "Thanks."

  "No problem. You ready to tattoo or do you need a minute? You don’t really look like the kind of girl I normally see in here." He never breaks eye contact as he props his hip against the side of the table next to me. I haven't needed anything more than this aside from Breyson. I choose to ignore his prior stereotypical comment.

  "I'm ready," I say.

  "Lay back and tuck your shirt underneath your bra. My name is Riggan, but my friends call me Rigg. What's yours?" I start to relax a little the more he talks, thanks to that shot of warm liquid running through my body and medicating my veins. The more I look at him I notice he has a lip ring as well; a loop through the right side of his bottom lip.

  He crosses his arms in front of his chest waiting for me to reply. He begins skimming his teeth with the ring by pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. "It's Kinzleigh."

  "How old are you, Kinzleigh?" I'm not sure what's going on here.

  "Eighteen," I respond. Lying back flat against the table, I grab the hem of my tunic and pull it up my body, tucking it underneath the wiring of my bra.

  He pulls a pair of black latex gloves from a box and covers his hands with them. He pops the new needle out of the plastic that houses it and I watch as he sets up to ink my skin. Tearing the paper towel from the roll, he folds it into a square and lays it beside me. I can hear the buzzing of the needle as he taps the pedal with his foot to load the gun with the first color. "You're not going to draw it first on paper and stencil it?" This is a little different from the script I got done across my pelvis. That guy drew it on paper and tattooed from the transfer on my skin.

  Now sitting on a rolling stool he smirks at me; the cockiness clearly defined. "I freehand girl. When you came to see me you came to a pro; the best around. I'm usually available by appointment only, but for you I'm making an exception. I've been tattooing since I turned eighteen and drawing since I could pick up a pencil. I'm now twenty-four. You do the math. I don't trace anything. Ever." That's a little nerve racking, but I can't seem to find the ability to care right now. The needle is what I need not the ink.

  I nod as he comes closer to me with the tattoo gun. The various colors are sitting on a rolling tray beside his tattoo hand, the left one. You don't see left-handed people very often. He touches my skin with the gun and I feel the first puncture followed by another. In this moment, I understand everything Konnor said completely. Each time the needle stabs through my skin it feels like the pain begins to ooze out, similar to the puss when you pop a zit. Slowly, but surely, I feel like I can breathe more easily as my skin is etched with color. I stare at the ceiling, counting the squares as I bask in the relief of the pain exiting my body. A tear slides from the outward corner of my eye and runs down my face into my ear. I can feel his eyes on me every few seconds, but I don't look at him.

  I still can't feel the light, but the fog of darkness that is surrounding my soul thins just a little making life more bearable. I'm not sure how to live in darkness, but I'm sure I'll learn soon enough. The day he died all light was squandered. Maybe it's because my soul is residing at the bottom of the ocean with its other half and the darkness of the ocean's depth is coming through and consuming me. Whatever it is, I'm going to enjoy the few moments of peace I have while it lasts.

  Just as soon as it begun it ended or so it seems. In reality, we’ve been here for hours. "There. It's finished." He wipes the sensitive area with a paper towel and rubs it down with petroleum jelly. He holds out his hand for mine. "You want to take a look?" Nodding, I take his hand and sit up in preparation to stand on my feet.

  After getting steady on my feet, he leads me to a body length mirror that hangs on the wall. I gasp as I look at the permanent piece of art on my skin. It's beautiful. The design begins with script right below my breast and continues halfway down my side. The bottom script stops at the level of where the naval is. He is really talented. The whole piece looks three-dimensional the way the plane is plunging through the heart. I'm speechless. "I love it." Tears spill from my eyes as I take in every color, every line and every letter. "How much do I owe you?"

  I look up into the mirror, staring into his eyes through the reflection. He is standing behind me and begins shaking his head from side to side. "This one's on the house."

  "I want to pay you. Just tell me what I owe you. Please," I say in more of a begging manner.

  "Look, this is my shop and I decide who I charge and who I don't. I don't know what you're going through, but I have a pretty good guess. For what it's worth, I've been there. Losing someone is a bitch. I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but it gets easier as long as you know it'll never completely go away. You’ll even have days you relapse and want to die all over again. You have to learn to differentiate between the pain that's real and what your mind wants you to think is real. No one can help you to heal, but yourself. I'm not going to give you a speech, because I know it doesn't help. No one can understand being in that place that you're in. I know there is a line between artist and client and I'm not going to cross it, but I'm going to walk to the edge by putting this out there. If you ever decide to move on, give me a call and we'll get a drink."

  Reaching in his pocket he pulls out a business card and hands it to me. He is making it clear he doesn't expect a response, so I take the card and remain silent. I wait for him to cover the tattoo with a paper towel and tape and make my way to the door. The second I walk out of the exit, the pain hits me full force like a bus at high speed. It knocks the air from my lungs. There is only one place I want to be right now.

  My body makes the decision for me as if it's possessed by an alien controlling my limbs. I need to be able to feel him, to sleep beside him, no matter how crazy it makes me. I'm starting to get used to the madness anyways. There is only one place that I know I'll feel him holding me while I attempt to sleep: his bed. His mom told me I was welcome to stay anytime I wanted and just to let her know. Well I'll just have to sneak in, because I didn't plan it.

  I turn off my headlights as I turn into the driveway. I can see what I'm doing, but I feel like I can't control my body; more like an out of body experience. It's sort of like I'm looking down at myself from above. I don't even know what is normal anymore. It's late enough that anyone home is probably asleep, but I don't care to look and see who it is. Once I shut down the engine, I get out of my car and close the door as quietly as possible. Breyson told me once about a side window that is not connected to the alarm system. He said him and his brothers cut the wire to disabl
e it so they could sneak out when they had curfew.

  Walking around the side of the house, I can only hope it is still unlocked. I get to the window and remove the screen from the outside, leaning it against the brick. Placing my fingers underneath the lip of the window, I push upwards and the window begins to inch open. I ease it up slowly, careful not to wake anyone. I stick my head inside to make sure the coast is clear before entering the house. When it is confirmed, I throw my leg over and climb inside.

  I get steady on my feet and look around at the dark and quiet room. I hold my breath as I tiptoe my way across the room to the staircase. When I reach the bottom, I step two at a time until I reach the top. Thankfully, I don't hear any sounds from someone stirring. When I touch my hand to Breyson's doorknob, I freeze. I haven't been in here since before he left and I'm not sure how I'm going to react emotionally, but I can't back out now, because I'm already here.

  I close my eyes and try to tell myself to remain calm, but it's not helping at all. It doesn’t really matter anyway. I stay in a constant state of anxiety. Twisting the knob, I push the door open and walk in. Braxton's room is right down the hall and Briar's across from his. Luckily, Breyson's is at the end of the hall by itself and Brylee's downstairs along with their parents. Carefully shutting the door, I take in the mostly dark room. The curtains from the window are open and the moonlight is shining through, allowing enough light in to see the bed and the area surrounding it.

  The tears are already falling when I begin walking toward the unmade bed. I can already smell the scent that is only his, a mixture of laundry detergent, soap and cologne. It looks just like he would have left it when he woke up that morning. It wasn't in his nature to be tidy and make his bed. He didn't see the point when no one entered his room and it was only going to end up unmade when he went to bed. The first thing I notice when I reach the bed is a picture on his nightstand that wasn't present the last time I came over. I sit on the edge of the bed and reach over to pick it up.