crimson tears ➣ pjm

➣ nine

"i have a feeling you're going to make this hurt."

"oh, no. now, why would i ever do that?" he responded sarcastically and smiled at me. i rolled my eyes back at him and just laid on the bed comfortably. he starts preparing his equipments and printing my tattoo idea.

"what made you wanna get a tortured kid like this?" he asked without turning to look at me.

"i think 'tortured' is a nice way to put it," i retorted. the tattoo idea i got is of a little boy who is decapitated. his wrists are bleeding but he's holding his detached head with his hands. he's crying blood. but his eyes are closed. the rest of his body is naked with cuts and scratch marks all over his skin. his feet aren't human-like, but those of a rabbit instead.

"i'm just being nice."

"well, what would actually you call it?"

"macabre, maybe." he walks to me and motions for me to turn around. "we need you to lay on your stomach for this one. or you could sit in reverse if i make this bed a chair. you feel me?"

"yes, tyler."

"don't fuck with my name, man."

"i drew the picture."

"i could tell," he laughs a little.

"are you saying it looks bad?" why would i ask that? why do i even care what he thinks?

"no. it's quite the opposite."

it was silent for several minutes after that. he had started tracing the image on my skin. it's my first tattoo. i didn't think it would be this therapeutic to be hurt.

"so, tyler. do you usually just pick up random passed out people at the bar and carry them to your place?"

"i'll make you bleed more," he said in a playful tone.

"i like it."

"there are so many things wrong with you but i kinda dig it. and no, i don't think i've ever done what i did the other night. something about you struck me as interesting and i didn't feel like watching you get mugged or maybe die."

"you don't often go to bars."

"how do you know?"

"i find it hard to believe you're actually just gonna stand there and watch someone die if it weren't me."

he chuckled. "you're right. i don't even drink."

"what was interesting about me?"

"wow! you're not even gonna ask why i don't drink."

"should i care?"

"no. you shouldn't. but either way, i really thought you seemed like a lost puppy."

"a what?"

"you looked like you were a regular at that place. however, you did not strike me as someone who genuinely enjoyed it. it seemed to me as though you were merely there to escape. you seemed lost."

i stayed silent. not really knowing what to say.

he isn't wrong.

i do go to these places not because i genuinely enjoy it but because i'm just so used to it. and it's my only way of not feeling like a total lost cause.

without the numbness that alcohol brings me, i'd feel an influx of fucking pain that would probably make me kill myself.

and as i've said numerous times, i'm a coward who just can't die.