~Highest Rank #60 in humor~
~#3 in death and life~
Sixteen year old Genevieve Kaelin considers herself a loner, neither a misanthrope nor a deviant. She has simply lost her connection to people and can not get it back as long as she is still the hos...
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THE MOONLIGHT GLISTENS OFF A PUDDLE OF WATER AS DIANA HOPS OVER IT. Silence gnaws my insides, worse than the autumnal air caresses my skin and seeps through my pores. There's nothing much to frighten me but I am frightened...and lonesome, not so much people at 10pm on cherry avenue street. Fragments of thoughts spin into my mind as my sister dances gracefully like a leaf falling from it's parent tree: a prodigal son. I try to comfort my poor soul by staying in a Christian safe zone and claiming everything alive is a sin. Not creature wise, adrenaline wise. If it makes me feel like I'm on a rooftop, it has to be a damnation but my covetousness of getting a tattoo has drawn the conclusion that I am a sinner.
"You're not a sinner. You're like a new slut in the tattoo black market," Didi says, skipping over another puddle of water. If I have a right to draw another conclusion, then the mayor needs to fix these potholes on the street.
"That's a horrible use of simile." I shudder. We both don't say anything, letting silence rule for a while and as we near the foot of a long walk to the tattoo parlour, splinters of words spoken by my grandmother lingers in the cold breeze. "Remember what Grandma Juliet used to say?"
"She said a lot of things. She once told me if I ever rode a boy's bicycle, I would get pregnant. She wasn't wrong, except I was eight."
"Never mind." I shake my head bitterly at my twin sister.
Grandmother Juliet always said, "The world is made up of two people. Those who have tattoos and those who are afraid of those who have tattoos". She was wrong. I am going to be that person who has a tattoo and yet is afraid of them. Mostly the needles....and the blood but this tattoo shops looks professional, compared to the others we've checked out today. Some reeked of feet, alcohol and marijuana, with beer cans strewn about on the floor. This one, on the other hand looks decent with a new sign up front that reads, 'tattoo is an art'. I tiptoe to glance inside through a tainted window, I can't see much but the light purple color scheme inside is very visible.
Didi breaks me out of my mental babbling as she pushes the door of the shop with one shoulder and coils her cold fingers around my wrist as the door let's out an old, tired groan.
"Hello? Does anybody works here? Hello?" Didi yells and throws her hands up in frustration with a sigh as I access the place.
Professional? If a desk and sofa that bends back into a bed is considered professional then right on. I let out uneven breaths as my sister continues to scream for service. I wipe my sweaty palms on my shirt. I am scared and I know I shouldn't be. Bad things happen when I get emotional.
"I'm coming!" shouts a guy as he walks in through the black door opposite us, battling with his grey shirt to get it on. "Son of a bitch," he murmurs, pulling the clothing from his face, his breathing hitches as he walks straight into his desk.
Before he finally wins the battle and gets his shirt on properly, I catch the breathtaking site of God gifted abs, rippled down into his khaki shorts and I will guess Didi did too. That would explain why her plump lips are so agape. Didi's face, with the light green eyes like okra she got from mom and the unfortunate porcelain skin inherited from dad looks paler, and with the way this guy is staring at us, I can tell he is a little taken back by our resemblance.
