Chapter 10

10

The afternoon at the tattoo shop was unusually quiet, a rare lull in the usual hustle and bustle. I leaned against the counter, flipping through a design portfolio while Chivonn worked on a detailed piece at her station, her crop top showing a wide expanse of rich, dark brown skin. Her client surely noticed it if his dreamy smile was anything to go by.

Chivonn and I had been working together for a while now, and I had come to admire her not just for her incredible skills but also for her down-to-earth nature and perceptive understanding.

Chivonn looked up from her work, her dark eyes reflecting a mix of concern and curiosity. "Hey, Mae, you've been kinda quiet lately. Everything okay?"

I glanced up, momentarily hesitant. Chivonn, hailing from the metropolitan area in the Midwest, had a way of cutting through pretenses with her straightforwardness. While I valued her honesty, it wasn't always easy to open up. But her genuine concern made me feel comfortable, and I decided to take the chance.

"It's just… family stuff," I said, my voice lower than usual. "I've been visiting my parents more often, trying to help them out. But it feels like every time I go, I'm reminded of how much they don't understand my choices."

Chivonn set down her needle and turned fully towards me, her expression softening. "Man, I hear you. That sounds rough. You're trying to do right by them, but it feels like you're stuck in this weird limbo between their expectations and your own life, huh?"

I blinked, surprised by her insight. Was she some kind of mindreader? It felt like she could see right through my struggles, laying bare the conflict I carried every day. I nodded slowly, feeling a rush of relief that someone finally understood, feeling the familiar ache in my chest.

"Exactly. It's like I'm trying to honor their sacrifices and live up to their expectations, but every visit reminds me of how disappointed they are. It's not just about them being unhappy with my job or my tattoos—it's about feeling like I'm failing them in some fundamental way," I admitted.

Chivonn's eyes were empathetic as she listened. "I can't pretend to fully know what that's like, but I can relate to the feeling of being caught between obligation and personal happiness. Growing up, I had to take on a lot of responsibilities at home. My mom worked long hours, and I ended up kind of becoming a second mother to my younger siblings."

I looked at her, intrigued. "That sounds like a huge responsibility. How did you manage all that?"

Chivonn sighed, her expression thoughtful. I noticed her client glancing her way, and when he realized I had caught him, he quickly pretended to be engrossed in the ceiling.

"It was tough," she continued. "I was basically juggling school, work, and taking care of my siblings. It felt like my whole life was dictated by what I needed to do for them, and there was hardly any room left for me to figure out what I wanted. I wanted to support my family and be there for them, but it was hard to keep pushing aside my own dreams, you know?"

Yes, I did know. Her words resonated deeply. "I can understand that. It's like you're torn between your responsibilities and what you want for yourself. I'm always trying to balance honoring my parents and following my own path, and it feels like I'm constantly struggling to keep everyone happy."

Chivonn nodded, her gaze still thoughtful as she crossed her arms, pushing up her ample cleavage. "Exactly. There's this constant battle between doing what you're expected to do and what feels right for you. Girl, I eventually had to make some tough decisions. I realized that if I didn't take care of myself and pursue my own dreams, I'd end up resentful and unfulfilled."

I could see the pain and resolve in her eyes, a reflection of her own journey. "It's a hard lesson to learn. I want to be there for my parents and make them proud, but it's painful to hear their disappointment every time I make a choice that doesn't align with their expectations."

As she spoke, I felt a tug in my chest, realizing I should really hang out with Chivonn more—get to know her beyond the shop. There was a depth to her that I hadn't fully tapped into yet, and it made me curious about her story. Maybe we could help each other navigate our struggles outside of work, building a friendship that extended beyond ink and needles.

She reached over, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "It is painful. But sometimes, the hardest thing is finding that balance. You have to remember that it's okay to pursue your own happiness while still caring for your family. You can't pour from an empty cup. Taking care of yourself doesn't mean you're letting them down."

I offered her a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Chivonn. It helps to hear that someone else has gone through something similar. Just knowing that I'm not alone in this struggle makes a difference."

Chivonn returned my smile with one of her own, her expression warm and reassuring. "Anytime, Mae. We all have our battles, and sharing them can lighten the load. You're doing the best you can, and that's all anyone can ask for. Just remember to take care of yourself along the way."

As the shop began to fill with clients and the day picked up its usual rhythm, I felt a renewed sense of relief. Despite the ongoing challenges and the clash of cultures, having someone like Chivonn to talk to reminded me I wasn't alone in my struggles. The small moments of connection and empathy helped bridge the gaps between my worlds, making the journey a little more bearable.

Just then, the bell above the door chimed, and I turned to see a familiar figure stepping inside. My heart sank as the creepy guy from the other day walked in, the one with that manically scribbled picture he had shown me. His presence felt unsettling, like a shadow creeping into the warmth of our little haven. I exchanged a quick glance with Chivonn, who raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing the tension in the air.

"Great," I thought, bracing myself for another round of awkwardness. As he approached the counter, I felt a knot tighten in my stomach.

Before I could say anything, Jake emerged from the back room and stood behind me at the counter, his expression shifting to one of cautious curiosity. His presence was a silent show of support, a reminder that I wasn't alone in this. I could almost feel his steady energy grounding me while I prepared to face the approaching figure.

"Can I help you?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. Jake's presence behind me was reassuring, but I still felt the tension coiling in my stomach.

The creepy guy leaned closer, his eyes glinting with an intensity that made my skin crawl. "I need a tattoo," he said, his voice low and almost conspiratorial. "But it has to be you, Mae. You're the only one who can do it. "

I raised an eyebrow, taken aback. Why did he say my name with such a familiarity when I still didn't know who he was or what his first name was?

"Why me?" I asked, my voice edged with skepticism. Maybe I was overthinking this. Perhaps he heard about me through word of mouth. I mean, we did offer our portfolio online through the Inklusive website.

He leaned in even closer, lowering his voice. Jake placed a hand on my shoulder and I tried to relax to no avail.

"I saw it in a dream. The design... it has to be on my back, and I just know you're the artist meant for it. No one else can capture what I need."

I exchanged a quick glance with Chivonn, who looked as uncomfortable as I felt. Jake's posture stiffened slightly, his protective instincts kicking in.

"That's quite a claim," I said, trying to maintain some distance. "We have other talented artists here at Inklusive Studios."

He shook his head, frustration mingling with fervor. "No, you don't understand. It has to be you. I felt it, Mae. You're the only one who can bring this vision to life. That's what the voice said."

His gaze was unyielding, a mix of desperation and something darker that sent a shiver down my spine.

I swallowed hard, trying to process the intensity of his words. I could feel Jake's presence behind me, a steady anchor in this strange encounter, and I realized I needed to handle this carefully before we had a situation that required the authorities to get involved .

"Look, man," Jake interjected on my behalf, his voice calm but firm. "We're booked for weeks, and honestly, this isn't a simple design. It's going to cost you a pretty penny." He paused, a sly grin creeping onto his face. "How about, I don't know, two thousand dollars?"

I realized Jake's tactic, he was trying to get him to leave with the steep quote. I hoped it wor?—

The creepy guy's eyes widened for a moment, but then he nodded without hesitation. "Fine. I'll pay it."

Jake's grin faltered, and I couldn't help but feel a mix of disbelief and dread. "Wait, really?" Jake said, clearly taken aback. "You're serious?"

"Absolutely. I don't care about the price. I need this tattoo, and I need it from Mae," he insisted, his fervor only intensifying.

I shot Jake a glance, my heart racing. This was spiraling out of control. "You don't have to make any hasty decisions," I said, trying to keep the situation from escalating further. "We can discuss it?—"

But he shook his head, resolute, pulling out the same crumpled piece of paper from before. "No. I know exactly what I want," he pointed. "I dreamt of it, and it's meant to be."

I glanced at Jake, who wore a look of concern mixed with disbelief. I reluctantly prepared my station, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. Jake rang him up for me but I couldn't shake the unease creeping through my veins. The guy hadn't done anything outright wrong, but his intensity and fixation on me felt more than a little unsettling .

"Okay," I said slowly, trying to sound composed while I gathered my supplies.

As I set up my station, I stole another worried glance at Jake. His brows were furrowed, and I could tell he was still ready to step in if things took a turn for the worse. I appreciated his silent support, but I also knew I needed to handle this.

"Just focus on the art," I reminded myself, trying to shake off the growing discomfort. "You're a professional."

With a deep breath, I turned back to the creepy guy, calling him over to my station, ready to dive into this strange and unexpected tattoo session.

"And what's your name, sir?"

It felt important to put a name to the creeps surrounding me. It was becoming a pattern I didn't like.

"Joel."

As I prepared to ink the tattoo, I studied the piece of paper he had handed me—a rough sketch of the strange bird-like man engulfed in flames. The lines were jagged and chaotic, but the imagery was striking. I could see the concept behind it: a figure caught in turmoil, symbolizing both suffering and resilience.

"What does this mean to you?" I asked, trying to make sense of the messy energy swirling around us as well as curious.

He leaned back slightly, his gaze unwavering as he explained. "It represents my battles. The flames symbolize my past—the pain and the lessons. The bird… it's about freedom, rising from the ashes. "

"Powerful," I replied, nodding slowly. I took a moment to refine the design in my mind, imagining how to transform his rough sketch into something fluid and intricate. The more I absorbed the meaning behind it, the more I felt a connection—an understanding of the struggle he wanted to portray.

As I readied my tattoo machine, I couldn't help but notice how intense his focus was on me, as if he was absorbing every detail. The energy in the room shifted, and while I tried to immerse myself in the creative process, I couldn't shake the lingering unease.

I set the sketch down, my heart racing slightly while I began to prepare the ink and needles. I knew I needed to reclaim my space in this moment, to focus on the artistry and the story behind the tattoo. With a deep breath, I reminded myself that I was here to create something meaningful—something that would resonate long after the ink had dried.

"You said your back, correct?"

He nodded and turned over.

As I positioned the stencil on his skin, I took a moment to study the contours of his back. The tattoo would have to flow seamlessly with his body, embodying the struggle he wanted to express. I pressed the machine to the skin, and the hum vibrated through the air, breaking the silence.

With each stroke of the needle, the image began to emerge. The bird, with its outstretched wings the color of blood and obsidian, seemed to flutter to life under my hand. The flames licked at its edges, dancing around its form, capturing the raw agony he described. I focused on the details, the fierce expression on the bird's face, as if it were trapped between pain and freedom.

As I worked, I felt an odd connection between me and the image. It was as if the bird were gazing into my soul, reflecting the anguish and turmoil that lingered beneath the surface of both our lives. I could almost sense the weight of his struggles translating into the ink, each line and shade imbued with emotion.

Jake strolled by, a knowing look in his eyes. He raised his eyebrows and gave me an encouraging nod, his subtle gesture a reminder that I wasn't alone in this.

As I continued inking, I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the process with an air of casual confidence.

With his support lingering in the background, I found myself moving with a renewed rhythm, each stroke of the needle becoming more deliberate. I could feel the energy in the room shift, almost as if we were all collectively invested in the creation unfolding before us. The connection between artist and canvas was palpable, and I allowed myself to get lost in it.

Jake's nod had ignited something in me, a fire that pushed me to delve deeper into the details, making sure each flicker of flame and feather captured the essence of the story we were telling.

I continued, lost in the rhythm of my work, the needle puncturing the skin in a steady cadence. The flames swirled around the bird, giving the piece a dynamic energy, as if it were caught in an eternal dance between suffering and liberation. Each layer of ink added depth, transforming a mere image into a vivid portrayal of his inner battles.

With every moment, I felt the atmosphere shift, charged with a sense of urgency and connection. It was more than just a tattoo; it was a shared experience, a glimpse into the pain we both carried. As the final details came together, I stepped back for a moment to admire the work, my heart raced at the… image of a supernatural warrior staring back at me.

I didn't notice the collective silence until Jake let out a low whistle, followed by Chivonn's soft gasp of awe. Their reactions pulled me back into the moment, reminding me of the impact of what I was creating.

A satisfied grin crossed Jake's face. "This is exactly why it was meant to be your tattoo," he mumbled, clearly impressed.

Chivonn chimed in, shaking her head in disbelief. "I could never bring something like that to life. You've got a gift, girl." Her voice was filled with genuine admiration, and it warmed my heart to hear their encouragement.

I felt a rush of pride and embarrassment at their words, bolstering my resolve while I focused back on the tattoo. How could anyone think tattoos as mere images painted on flesh? The atmosphere in the room was electric, and I could sense that we were all part of something bigger, a shared moment of creation that transcended the ink on skin.

"Let me wipe away the excess ink so you can take a look at it," I told Joel, my voice steady. I gently cleaned the area, noticing the tension in the room begin to dissipate with every stroke of the paper towel. The initial creepiness that had surrounded him was fading, as if he completed an important mission only he knew about.

As I revealed the design, his eyes widened, the wonderment replacing the earlier intensity. The vibrant colors and intricate details shimmered under the shop lights, reflecting the fresh ink just beneath the skin.

"Wow," he breathed, his voice tinged with admiration as I stretched my shoulders and back from the ache forming. "It's even more incredible than I imagined."

I couldn't help but smile at his reaction. The shift in his demeanor felt significant, as if the tattoo had unlocked something deeper within him. Maybe it was the connection to his pain, or perhaps it was the beauty of the art itself. Either way, I was grateful for this transformation. It felt like a small victory, reminding me of the power that art could hold.

If only I could explain all this to my parents.