Ink (Peterick)

Day 1,789

On his birthday, Patrick awakens at 8:30. Thank god it's Saturday, because it's hardly fun spending your eighteenth birthday at the prison they call school. Maybe he'll hang out with Joe today, or text Brendon before his birthday dinner with the family.

It's kind of hard to remember that today is a big deal in every sense. He's a legal adult today. Some magical transformation has occured that somehow gives him the right to vote and smoke and own property and a million other things. And... he might get to contact his soulmate today.

Your soulmate can only connect to you when you're both eighteen. Any ink they put on their skin, be it pen or paint or marker (thankfully not tattoos), appears on yours as well. The problem is, the chances of having the same birthday as your soulmate, or even a close one, are next to nothing. It causes a lot of people paranoia and anxiety— what if they don't have a soulmate? What if they died? What if they're ignoring you? It's not fun. At least, from what Patrick's heard.

At 12:36, Patrick's arm feels tingly. It's almost like when a limb falls asleep, but in far thinner lines. He stares at his forearm for some kind of explanation, and gets one very quickly. Writing is appearing in a messy scrawl on his skin.

Day 1,789:

Patrick's heart already aches for his unnamed soulmate. He kept them waiting.

Still nothing from you. My birthday's in a few months. That makes five years.

That's the first thing Patrick learns. His soulmate is twenty-two, going on twenty-three.

Sometimes I think I should just give up, you know? At this point, you're either ignoring me or dead. Soon you'll be too young for me anyway. I think I've accepted it. Nobody's here. It's okay.

The words smear across Patrick's arm like they're being wiped away with a towel. Patrick comes to his senses and scrambles desperately for any writing utensil. He finds a blue pen.

I'm here, he writes.

It takes a moment for his soulmate to respond.

holy shit... happy birthday, I'm pete

After a moment's hesitation, more writing appears: I'm your soulmate, apparently

Apparently, Patrick writes. I'm Patrick.

_____

Pete is a writer. A poet, more accurately, but he doesn't really like the term. It's a small exchange they do when they're bored: Pete's thoughts for Patrick's mediocre doodles.

Don't call them mediocre, Pete's black marker chastises. They're pretty. I like them.

That's what you're supposed to say, Patrick complains. The rose looked like shit and you know it.

Maybe, but the daisy was perfect

A three year old could draw a daisy.

Not the way you can. Quit second-guessing yourself

Easier said than done.

Trust me I know

Patrick frowns. How do you know?

I just do.

Pete's pen doesn't move again for a long time, and then his words start to run down his arm like they're being washed away. It's something he does sometimes as a kind of sign that he's done talking. Patrick sighs, and stands to go to the sink.

_____

One thing that sucks about the whole soulmate thing is the fact that your person is incredibly hard to find. Some kind of magic prevents everyone from writing any type of personal information about themselves for their soulmate, aside from their name. When asked where you live, or even your last name, your hand shakes uncontrollably until you're forced to give up.