Inked

My First

        When I was nine the first one appeared.

        Back then I still lived with my verbally and physically abusive father and my mother was either on crack or heroin even drunk, depending on her mood for the day.

        Mostly I tried to keep to myself.  I went from school straight into my bedroom; sneaking into the kitchen for any scrap of food, even tiptoeing just to use the bathroom.  I usually could get to either place without my parents noticing. But there were always days when both would be highly alert and bored.  For some reason i would then automatically become the person or thing that could alleviate that for them.  Right after that moment my night or day was shot; Hell could rise up and attack the entire world and I would've been oblivious except for the pain I was in.  For me it was all consuming.

        I never really had friends, how could anyone get close with someone and not be asked awkward questions about the bruises placed on their body?

        Ever since I was little I've been caring for myself, honestly I was and still am super independent, thank goodness for that.  Since my first one was an inking of a bullet hole right through my left breast, located directly as if I'd been shot straight through my heart. 

        When it first showed itself it wasn't that it just appeared, no.  Instead it was excruciatingly painful, as if I really was getting a tattoo needled into my skin.  Without any preparation it seared itself into my skin. 

        Momentarily I was confused by what was happening to me.  What could this pain be?  But then i knew, everyone does.  When a key moment in a person's life was going to occur a tattoo would show up on a person's body, hinting or helping a person to know what was going to happen or help them along in a decision or action they were going to have to do.  But it was up to the person what the tattoo really meant. If it meant anything at all.

        For a nine year old to get my first inking and it to be a bullet hole right where my heart is, that utterly terrifying.  To me this tattoo only had one way it could possibly go; it wasn't very cryptic seeming to me like others could be. 

        A few days after it first appeared I didn't do anything just too scared I guess.  Then a week from the day I was first inked, my Dad brought a new toy home.  A hand gun, jet black and wicked looking, I assumed he got it from the black market.

        Hiding just inside the door frame of my bedroom I heard Mom and Dad talking,

"Jeremy, why do you have that gun?"

        While she asked this he kept his focus on the evil thing in front of him, shining it, turning it over, cocking the gun; never once did he turn his head to address her.

"you know, just in case i need it for something" he replied cryptically.

        Mom continued to sit on the couch watching him for the next couple of minutes.  Finally she shrugged and lugged herself off of the couch, ambling over to the fridge she grabbed another beer and took a long drink.

        I remember ducking my head back into my bedroom, chest heaving as I tried to control the terror that threatened to escape me.  Tugging my shirt collar down I looked at my tattoo with dread.  I knew for certain now what was going to happen to me. 

        Dad was going to kill me.

        I needed ot leave. As soon as I could.

        Thinking back, I find it funny how one of the things that I was most worried about was school.  How much I was going to miss to me it was daunting.  Ha, like that would've helped me any.