Painted On

Unhappy

        

Connor

Connor smiled at the girl. A deceiving smile. It wasn't like he wasn't used to it. Everything was a deception.

"My tattoo showed up?"

"I think so. Send me a picture of it to check."

Lies. Always lies. He hated it.

And then she smiled back.

A soft hand was playing with the hem of his shirt.

"Where'd you say mine was?"

The girl didn't deserve this, Connor knew. But he was scared. He didn't know how to do anything else. "My hip," he said.

"Mmmm." She was kissing him again.

He knew how this would go. She'd ask to see it and he'd show her the tattoo and then they'd do whatever she wanted until they broke up.

"What about yours?"

"My ribcage," she said. "Wanna see." It was said with a wink. Connor said nothing, her shirt was already being pulled off.

And there, clear as day, written across her ribcage, below her heart, was his tattoo.

She loves you, something inside him taunted. But you can't love her back. Why is that? (Deep down he knew why. But he'd never say.)

Her hand was on his hip, slipping his jeans down. And there was her tattoo, painted on and stuck with hairspray and clear nail-polish. A trick he'd learned years ago.

And they did exactly as she wished and he left the next morning.

It took her two weeks to decide he wasn't involved enough and break up with him.

A month later, he had a different design to paint on his body.

Another lie to tell.

And he felt nothing.

Troye

His scar was itching again.

Most of them did, sometimes, but this one was persistent.

Because it was the worse. A mass of scar tissue between his hip and his ribs, marking the biggest mistake he made.

Buried under the scar tissue, burned into his skin, was a mark that showed he loved someone once.

Someone he didn't deserve to love.

He'd stopped caring, after that. Any tattoos that appeared he turned into one-night stands and never spoke to them again.

It was easier than heartbreak.

But he didn't want people to see him as broken. So with a fake smirk and false confidence he flaunted them as badges around other people. He pretended they weren't signs of pain, let people believe he was a player and proud of it.

But every tattoo had a story.

Every tattoo had tears behind it.

And nearly every tattoo had a scar.

And that was the way he chose to live.

He wasn't happy.

But he survived.