Inked in Pain

Decompress

Sitting on the loveseat in the living room, mindlessly watching reruns of some semi popular sitcom I try to decompress. Wine would probably work better honestly. I look down as I feel a vibration on my wrist. Tricked again by my apple watch into believing that I have a message when really it is telling me to stand up. As I go to clear the annoying reminder I note that its past midnight, on a Tuesday. The week has barely started and I can already tell that is going to take the same route as it has for the past few months.

Letting out a sigh, I lean my head back on the couch to stare at the ceiling. When did I devolve to the type of person who allows this. Who willingly buries their head in the sand and gives a passive green light to the utter bullshit that has become our life. I have never been the suffer in silence type, preferring to share the pain with all needed parties.

Giving up on the attempt at decompressing, I stand from the couch to start the newly solo role of shutting down the house. Turning off the tv, placing my dirty cup in the sink. I walk through each room turning off lights and making sure all doors and windows are locked. As I make one last pass through the house, that until six months ago was a loving home, I glance at the large mirror in the hall on the first floor. Empty exhausted golden eyes stop me in my tracks. Not the physical exhaustion that so many are familiar with that can usually be fixed with good nap. No, they show a bone deep emotional exhaustion. Often cased by unresolved hurts inflicted by someone else. After a few moments I come to the jarring realization that this woman in the reflection is me. A quick glance I notice my lighter olive complexion lacking its usual glow and my dark mahogany hair is thrown in its usual at home messy bun, pieces falling around my face I can't be bothered to fix. All I can think is,

"Well aren't I depressing."

With a sigh that speaks of frustration beyond my 29 years, I make my way upstairs to my bedroom.

After climbing in bed and burrowing in my blankets my annoying apple watch once again vibrates, I am seriously starting to despise this thing. Rolling my eyes I glance down where Instagram informs me, Leigh Ward added to their story. Reaching for my phone I can't help but open the notification, curious to who this Leigh Ward is and what she could be up to at midnight on a Tuesday. I have no recollection of adding or accepting a request.

When the app opens and her IG Story plays it causes me to freeze for a moment and then my head jerks back in surprise. At first glance it is a normal annoying picture of a plate of food with a tag to the restaurant. Basic IG post, except two things catch my attention. One is the name of the restaurant. It is one that opened up a few months ago, I have been wanting to try but haven't quite been able to make it there yet. Honestly, based of the picture of the food I doubt I would of enjoyed it. That isn't the reason for my head jerk. No that reaction belongs to what I see in the background. You see right behind the plate angled within the picture just so to make it appear as if its appearance were an accident, is a strong forearm. The presence of a forearm in itself shouldn't cause the reaction in me it did, but it does when I come to two very obvious conclusions. She wanted that forearm to be seen. Don't get me wrong its a sexy forearm, with an intricate tattoo including a compass, map and rope. Very detailed and looks like it took multiple sessions to complete. I would know since I did the tattoo last year, damn near klling my back in the process.

So yes, she wanted someone to know that the forearm belonging to Brandon Nox was with her after midnight on a Tuesday, and that person she wanted made aware was his wife Rain Nox. And would you look at that, Rain Nox was me.