The Tattoo Guy (MCR FIC)

Chapter 32: Age 15

Chapter 32

Age 15

I sit with a notepad and pen. The pen in my hand feels foreign against the paper as I try to think of something to write. ‘You’. That words makes my brain hurt, makes my hands tremble and every thought from my brain melt away.

The way I saw myself was something I had never considered, it was something I didn’t see myself having to do so I never actually thought about it. I planned to never make it past 20 years old and to not have to do anything more after that, but I couldn’t write it down. This was my passing essay on me; a person who I have no idea about and have no meaning to being where I am. If I wrote about the truth I would fail. If I wrote about the lies I would fail. It was a serious moment where my hands itched for drink, for drugs and for a razor. I could write about each scar that lines my wrists and what that mean about me, it was my past and personality. Maybe I could bullet point everything bad and just make it seem good?

‘Me: I like D&D, Audrey Hepburn, Fangoria, Harry Houdini and croquet. I can't swim, I can't dance, and I don't know karate.’

Face it I’m never gonna make it.

I put down the pad and sit back against the wall of the art building, I imagine I’ve puffed out a long breath of smoke and from a non-existent cigarette. I remember when I was a kid I pretended to smoke with my pencils or pens like they were those long cigarette holders and walk around the house wearing my mom’s pearls and my dad’s aviator sunglasses. I may or may not have worn lipstick too but I’d never admit it- I looked like a sassy motherfucker in drag.

But now I had progressed from pencils to chocolate matchsticks to the real- my addictive personality got me hooked even if the taste didn’t settle well on my tongue at first. It’s weird how some things people pick up and they never expect it or people never expect it of you but you do. A few weeks ago Ray had managed to get another packet of Marlboro’s from his brother and we had been caught smoking them under the old oak at the back of the school, the old librarian had seen smoke and thought the tree was on fire- the old bat- so when she saw it was in fact Bob, Ray and I with these Tabaco filled rolls of heaven she couldn’t believe her cataracts. We were always too sweet and shy to do anything like that. Ha. Here I am at 15 years of age with nothing about me, no future, no present and the shitty resemblance of the past.

Maybe who I am is who I’m meant to be. Who I’m going to be. I know my dad is looking down at me with a bottle of scotch in his hand toasting me for being a fuck-up who will never make anything in life.

I don’t wanna make it, I just wanna….

“What are you doing out here?” a girl asks as she sits down with her own notebook. She’s pretty, has raven hair that is much like my own and tempting blue eyes that are rimmed with black.

“Trying to do this stupid essay for creative writing by tomorrow or I fail the class.” I grumble looking at what I’d written down feeling that those words were the only thing I could sum up life into.

“Me too. I’m the Picture Girl.” She holds out her hand and I shake it with my grubby cold one, her skin is so soft and warm I want to press them to my cold cheeks.

“Picture girl?” I ask thinking it’s some weird nickname or stereotype.

“I take a Polaroid and turn the picture into something different.” She shrugs then takes out her camera nodding to ask to give an example.

She snaps one of me giving a shy sort of smile and as if like clockwork she instantly starts to manipulate the image whilst it’s warm, she uses her pen to draw patterns of swirls and within the moments when it cools down I don’t see me anymore. The image resembles nothing of a face only a slew of swirls and zigs from my head and eyes looking slightly horrific. Ideally I loved it- it was me- it was all my demons showcased.

“That’s so awesome.” I gasp taking it from her and just tracing every detail. “Can I keep it if I give you this?” I offer flipping to the back of the notebook to a couple of sketches and tear out one of a girl in white with black eyes leaking out black tears that looks surprisingly like her.

“This is beautiful. You know I think when I turn eighteen I’m getting this as a tattoo.” She holds the drawing to her chest as if to treasure it, it’s only then do I notice we are wearing the same Iron Maiden shirts only she’s wearing it with blue jeans and converse and I’m wearing tatty black jeans with rips and holes in and paint covered combat boots.

It’s only then that I see Lyn-z looking over at us with a jealous look in her eye and when she realises she got caught looks away to talk to her friends who have all switched from deciding to be ‘goth’ to ‘punk’ to ‘hippies’ like they do every week in a vicious circle that soon they will run out of styles.

I see Frank showcasing his first tattoo to one of his cool friends in his band; his hair now in dreadlocks we all know he’s been working on for the past year.

“Next time you don’t know what to write, close your eyes take a deep breath and count to 10, then just imagine what you want and it’ll come to you.” Then the bell rings and ‘Picture girl’ jumps up. “I better go I have Chemistry next and it’s my fave.”

“Wait. I don’t even know your name.” I say standing to my feet to catch her wrist.

“You don’t need it. I’ll see you around Tattoo Guy.” She smiles and walks off with a little skip in her step and leaving the smell of her honey scented hair around me.