The Worst Addiction

Undefinably Craved Ink

          The idea of a new tattoo was haunting, and I walked past the parlor nearly every day. By now I was sure that the artists inside had seen me. A chuckle would probably leave their lips when I decided what was the right ink, and their mind's would let words like 'It's about damn time' flow through. Today wasn't the day that chuckle would escape though, because I walked past it like every other time, and went home.

     I'd been using my time home alone looking up tattoo's. I couldn't help but be disappointed. Not a single once caught my eye. On the screen that was filled with endless ink on my computer a photo read 'Do not keep calm and carry on. Call in sick and get a tattoo'.  A small sound filled the emptiness of my house. It wasn't exactly a laugh, it was the start of one, but it faded away fast almost as if something realized I was going to have a small amount of pleasure and that wasn't acceptable. I wondered how many people genuinely did that. Called in sick just to get the ink they craved. It seemed like something my parents would have expected from me. 

     They warned me at eighteen that tattoo's were like a drug in their own way. You couldn't stop at one. I told them they had no idea what they were talking about. They didn't watch tattoo shows late at night like I did. They didn't know the horror stories, and the delight it could bring. I was a teenager. To me, they didn't know anything. 

     Only they did know some things at least. They were right about the tattoo's being a kind of drug, because I was covered in them. I had my own sleeve of ink that was still growing, and at family get together their eyes had an 'I told you so' kind of look. 

     I wondered what they would tell me now as I sat in my boxers and white t-shirt with some vodka staining it. I hadn't left the house since yesterday, and I didn't bother to change. I'd put an ash tray of sorts just beside my nightstand and countless cigarette butts were laying there dead. Bowls of cereal and a pizza box with grease sunken into the cardboard lay just beside the door waiting to be cleaned up. They were in store for a long wait.

     I was sure my parents would have been disappointed. Their son who was nothing but a straight A's student as a child had amounted to this. My inner teenager came back thinking they wouldn't understand. They couldn't understand this heartache. The kind that made me not find any motivation to do the things I used to. They would understand though. They had been through more relationships with messy endings than I had. I was sure. They were my age once too. Then again, maybe they actually wouldn't. Did my parents know what it was like to have the person who held your world run away from you hurt and terrified?

     I hoped not. 

     She was the reason I was like this. 

     I can't blame her though, because I was the one who made her do it. 

     Memories of the last time I spoke to her flooded to my head and I had to stop looking at the computer and try to shove them out. I held my head in my hands, shaking it in regret. My eyes squeezed shut as the awful memories wouldn't leave. I was beginning to hate a new thing.

     Myself. 

     "Bitch." My memory replayed, my voice angry and echoing. I was just so done with the world that night. I only needed the lightest shove to fall off the edge, and when I got home she'd gave it to me. I returned the favor. It wasn't a shove though. It was a strong punch, and it was still in the wall just outside my room. I'd never seen her so terrified. I'd never felt so out of control, and remembering how I was that night, it scared me too.

     I was a monster. 

     It was funny how my parents checked for the monsters were under my bed, or hidden away in my closet because those monsters weren't real. Monsters hid away in people. Plenty of them hid away in me. They fed off the smokes that I had daily, and their water was alcohol. They were born from greed, and hate, and their favorite was heartbreak. I think that's because heartbroken people have such a hard time trying to find themselves again that they'll take on a monster if they think it's a part of them. If they believe that maybe that's who they are too. I bit my lip hard, looking at the used cigarette butts in the tray. I let them in me, and I was making them stronger.