Jake has a lover from the past, though he remembers her in this life too. She was his reasons for all inspiration, his work of art, and his to bring him pain. Yet what separates them was this new life.
When he does manages to find her, will she reco...
For as long as you could remember, you've always wanted a tattoo.
You've had the vivid image of it loitering in the back of your mind for a while now, knowing exactly what it should look like even though you were still uncertain of ever seeing it before.
It was one of a side profile, like a pretty portrait that an artist had accidentally ruined, generating weird shapes and smudges across it. When you close your eyes and think about this image, the outline of someone's face is clearly visible on it, though shielded away with something that looks like a spill of paint, ruining the soft edges.
Oddly enough, you couldn't recall the colours of it, so you chose to fill it all with the pitch black of your mind. Despite it being as vivid as you could confidently call it, you still suffered great trouble getting it from your head onto papers.
You weren't the greatest artist for that matter, so until someone invents a technology that can take screenshots of your mind and print it out, it was going to be a hassle to get that tattooed on yourself.
That was, until you graduated from university and got a job. Overworked, stressed, and overwhelmed with projects, you decided to join your best friend at one of those paint-and-wine events, even though you couldn't paint to save your life—you were there to have fun.
Somehow, you managed to paint some crazy scribbles that ended up resembling the very same tattoo you've always wanted when you were little. You continued painting, even if it looked like something out of a horror movie.
You felt like the woman was right there, trapped in the paper, and you had to free her by outlining her shapes, to let her get out, let her be free. It was dramatic, but the stress and wine had a lot to do with it.
When the paint dried, you asked for a pencil and drew on the outlines of her profile, just like the one in your head. The finished product wasn't terrible, but unsettlingly, it wasn't as close to the image you'd had in mind for years—nothing was. You've never seen anything like it.
The person who ran the event, the gallery owner, came over and patted your back, complimenting your work. "Is it a self-portrait?" She asked, not taking her eyes off of the canvas.
You too glued your eyes onto it further. "No, I...Don't know what it is," Your lips frowned as you admitted with a sigh. "I feel like I've seen something similar somewhere, but I can't remember where."
"It looks just like you. It's a bit abstract, but it looks like you from the side," She told you truthfully, tilting her head to the side as she observed the canvas, and then back at you. "There's this one artist from the city that gave me a couple of paintings that looked exactly like this, maybe you've seen some of his work around."
"There is?" You asked absentmindedly, not really caring about anything else other than this newfound resemblance between you and the lady in your head. You don't really see it, but it must be there, right?
"Yeah, I've sold a painting or two of his in my gallery, so I must have his number somewhere. Hey, when did you see it?"
"When I was a child, I think?" You replied unsurely, now taking the time to look at the woman, but she was too busy looking for the contact to notice.
She suddenly stopped searching, eyebrows raised in realization. "Oh, then it can't be this guy. He's somewhere around your age. Definitely wasn't getting his work out at that age." She hummed, patting your back. "Anyway, great work. I think it looks just like you."
For some reason, her words irked you, but you didn't know why. The lady in the painting wasn't you, far from it, how could you not recognize yourself?
You were sure that she was probably someone you've seen in the past, a work of art that someone has created per se, you could have seen her on the pages of magazines—art books that you might've shuffled through as a bored little kid.
It wasn't an emblematic portrait like the Mona Lisa by any means, not even more than a random portrait, because you were sure that someone must've known it if it was famous. No one around you knew what you were talking about, but nonetheless, you took the painting with you home, letting it sit behind your closet for the time being.
For your next birthday, you finally treated yourself to a tattoo, a small one. The one (and only) benefit of working your ass off in a nine to five job—was money, which meant so that you could afford the best tattoo artist in town.
You showed him the painting and did your best to explain how you wanted the permanent design to play out. You told him to copy exactly how you did it, but make it a lot better, and clearer. And to which he delivered.
It wasn't the exact replica of what was in your head, but it was close, the closest you've managed to get it in real life, and you love it. Impulsive decision or not, it was now imprinted on your wrist forever, and safe to say, there was absolutely zero regrets about it.
Your very first memory was her, the moment you could walk, and speak with coherent sentences, she was there. She's been with you all your life, always somewhere in the back of your head, calming and loved.
There was a sense of familiarity when you think of her, like a sudden knock on the door to deliver this wave of unexplained nostalgia, though simultaneously, you would always end up with a slight pang in your chest, as if to warn you for seeking out something forbidden.
