Stained Glass Souls (Wattys 2014, Collector's Dream Award Winner)

Charliegh: Secrets like Skeletons

(Charliegh: unedited)

Never again.

When she had left the graffiti studio, feeling ashamed and empty, she had vowed to never return. Nolan would be pushed to the back of her mind. That night wouldn’t exist. Better to overlook a mistake than to acknowledge it, and in doing so, be forced to view the enormity of her actions.

So why was she standing in front of the tattoo parlor, hand curled into a hesitant fist, poised to knock?

Yes, she had been broken. Maybe Nolan was a part of that. It was more likely that her current state – silent, grieving, jumpy – was associated with Randall, and all her memories of him. They had come rushing back with such terrible force the other day that, when she had opened her eyes, she had realized with great relief that she had been dreaming. It was real. Not now. It had been real, very real, but for a different Charliegh, a girl who thought that life was as easy as blocking out problems and being immune to pain.

Try as she might, she couldn’t stop missing Randall. She hadn’t loved him – not even close. But that night with Noland had made her long for human company, for a person who truly understood. Sylas, as wonderful as he was, just didn’t get it. He didn’t, couldn’t, know why she blamed herself so deeply for Randall’s death.

Nolan knew. This was exhilarating, the kind of exciting that happens when all the blood rushes into your head. It makes the world sway and spin and tip on its side, and you realize that it wasn’t excitement at all – it was fear.

She felt a strong flash of this fear as the door swung open before her.

“You can walk right in. I need an ID on you, though.” It was a man, short and wiry, grey hair sticking out from underneath the brim of a bowler hat. His ratted, faded black muscle shirt exposed two identical sleeves of tattoos, colors running together, fantastical creatures clashing upon his biceps. The design of a rope wrapped its way up his left arm, running along his shoulder and disappearing down the back of his shirt.

He was leering at her.

“Oh, um, I…” Charliegh felt inexplicably stupid. Should she have waited after school for Nolan, instead of coming to the front of here? “I don’t want a tattoo.”

“Right. Door ditch.” The man started to close the door in annoyance. Charliegh stared, transfixed, as the muscle in his arm rippled, sending a jet of dragon fire rippling down his skin.

At the last moment, she tore her attention away from the tattoo and shouted in protest. “I was looking for someone!” Her voice came out squeaky, breathless. She cleared her throat. “A boy. He has a studio back here?”

“Look, kid, lots of boys have studios back here. Tattoo rooms?” The man squinted. “You said you didn’t want a tattoo.”

“No, graffiti. I mean, this boy, he has a graffiti studio. It’s in the back.”

The man muttered something like teenagers under his breath, and swung the door open. “Yeah. Nolan. Just head straight, go down the hall. Last room on the left.”

Charliegh shoot him a nervous smile. “Thanks.”

The man didn’t reply. He let the door hang, and stalked back into the studio. She followed, eyes straining to adjust to the sudden lack of light. The front room of the tattoo parlor was unusually dark, walls plastered with advertisements. Pornography and famous tattoos hung in frames. She felt her face warm, and averted her eyes. So this was how Nolan lived half of his life. In a rundown, shambling place like this. The hallway was next to a desk. The girl sitting behind it, an artificial aqua-head with dimple piercings, gave Charliegh an uninterested once-over as she walked past. She found the correct doorway and pushed her way inside.