Two broken souls in the midst of a crazy world. Two souls running away from their past. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. The tunnel was cracking, slowly closing in.
When these two connect, as if they were set on the same path, light cre...
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I am, in fact, not a sane man. Don't get a matching tattoo. Don't get a matching tattoo. Matching tattoos are a death wish; you're signing your relationship away.
A tattoo is the least of our worries. Her mental stability is the most concerning thing about our relationship. Not to be an ass, but she is not an easy woman. I live with the fear of waking up to her gone every day, to a text that simply says "bye" and never seeing her again.
From the moment I set eyes on her, I worried about her. She's absolutely beautiful—a true angel in disguise—but terrifying at the same time. Her slim frame worried me the most. Her pale skin and dark undereyes. It suited her and still does, but I know for a fact that it isn't healthy.
Not only that, but the energy that radiates off of her is nothing but trouble. It made me oddly comfortable to see someone so similar to me. It made my head spin. A perfect soul is trapped inside her own head, and all I want to do is release her from there. I know how hard it can be.
I see the faint scars that litter her skin, some tucked away by black ink to rid them of her past. They haunt me, my own too. I've never asked or spoken up; it's not my story to tell, but fuck if I don't want to.
If I could paint the perfect picture for her to show her what I see, I would. I'm no artist, that's for sure. If she could spend even a second in my mind, she would understand the love I have for her. It consumes me every waking day and every restless night.
The smallest tattoo shop, tucked away by vines rising up the exposed brick, brings me back to life. Sure, I knew where she was; I always do, but I didn't think for a moment that's what she would get. I've decided on the same spot. Maybe that's crazy, or maybe it's romantic; I don't give a fuck.
The bell rings above me, and the faint noise of tattoo guns fills the air. From the moment I turned eighteen, this is the most I've ever felt at home. The ink that saves no space for skin up and down my arms feels like a shield from who I really am, like a costume.
"Hi!" A woman stands behind the wood counter, gauges stretching her ears farther than I could imagine them going. "Have you seen her?" I put my phone up towards her, the lock screen glowing as it reflected off of her eyes. An off-guard photo of Vivian in the reflection. Her smile is still visible from so far.
The photo of her slightly drunk holding a bag of McDonald's with the biggest smile is my most prized possession. Seeing her fingers wrap around the paper bag with joy almost killed me. It's hard to catch her in such a happy state around food. "She was in here not too long ago; is she okay?"
"The tattoo she got, I want it." Her eyes widened as she pulled her lips into a thin line. "You don't have much space there, huh?" I glance back down at my arms, well shit. It takes a second to hit me. "On my back." I've left half of my upper back free for something special, and I think this is what i've been waiting for.
"Let me see if her artist is available!" Her hands clasp together as she rushes off into the great beyond. Aka, black curtains. I refuse to think this through, paying close attention to the terrible pop music playing in the distance. Something Vivian would listen to, or Parker, for fucks sake.
