Book IV of the UNC Series
Carter Blake has a bone-deep hatred for the world-and especially for the people in it. All he wants is to keep his head down, focus on school and basketball, and avoid the mess of human connection. After enduring years of...
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I rub my eyes as I sit up and straighten my aching spine. I wince at the crack I feel but sigh in relief when that relieves some of the pressure on my back from being arched over for so long.
Cracking my neck, I stare at the piece I'm working on. I get an overwhelming feeling that it's incomplete. I've been working on this piece for hours now. Keyan tried to tell me to sleep on it and come back to it tomorrow, but I couldn't walk away.
Every time I marked what I thought was my last stroke, it didn't fill me with the same content and excitement it usually does after a finished piece.
I'm working on a design I hope to add to my leg sleeve this time. My arm still needs work, and while I am right-handed, I could work on my left arm. But for some reason, I love working on my leg, which is why my left leg sleeve is almost done.
But something is missing. Maybe it's the design and the entire concept. I didn't really have anything in mind when I started drawing. It started with Mom's favourite flowers—hydrangeas—to now evolving into my mythical interpretation of Medusa with snakes wrapped around the flowers I initially drew.
It feels disconnected. I'm not someone who only tattoos art that means something to me. If that were the case, I would never be able to tattoo anything. But I want to feel something from the piece before I tattoo it onto myself.
However, that feeling shouldn't be frustration.
Glancing at the time and noting how late it is, I opt to return to it later.
Keyan left the shop for me to close. But I got caught up in drawing and trying to get it right, that I let the hours fly by.
I pack up my kit, lock it away behind the reception counter, and grab the keys. Thankfully, artists are responsible for cleaning up their own studios and booths. Thankfully, the counters have already been wiped, and the floors have been swept because I don't have the energy to do that right now.
I turn off the lights and turn to the front door when I startle. Standing like a dark figure in the night, a lone silhouette stares at me through the shop's glass-panelled windows. A shiver wracks down my body as I see nothing in their form, just a pitch-black figure.
And judging by the height and the stature, it's definitely a man. But I can't see anything else. I stumble backwards as I stare at the shadowed figure, whose features are brilliantly hidden by the low casting light from overhead—the streetlight hitting him directly on the back of his head.
My heart pounds furiously behind my ribcage as I collide with the counter behind me. Pain bursts in pinpricks between my shoulder blades, but I ignore it as he stands there. I know I should call for help. I know I should do something besides stand here while the man remains there watching me. But I can't seem to move.
He cocks his head as if he's analyzing me. And a shiver consumes me.
My breathing comes out short and harsh. My skin prickles as cold sweat beads down my temples. My clothes become too tight around my body, and I feel like I'm suffocating.
