8. Chapter 8

Chapter eight

Present

G rey skies loom overhead, thick clouds gathering with a chill in the breeze hinting at an approaching storm. Even though it’s only half-past eight in the morning, the day already casts a long shadow over my mood. The dreariness outside mirrors the turmoil I feel inside.

I hope, perhaps naively, that the sun might make an appearance, a beacon to lift my spirits and chase away the lingering unease. But optimism feels out of reach today. The chance of seeing sunlight is like asking for rain in a drought. Instead, I brace myself for the inevitable downpour, both from the sky and within.

Last night’s nightmare still clings to me, its vividness unsettling. It’s not like me to experience such night terrors—my dreams usually dance with sunshine, rainbows, and a certain kind of exhilarating intimacy, all with Laelia at the centre. But now, those dreams have been replaced by shattered glass, blood, and erratic, blinding lights. The imagery is disturbingly foreign, a far cry from my usual peaceful slumbers.

The only mishap I can recall is the minor car accident from a month ago. It’s nothing serious—just a few bruises, a minor concussion, and some backache. My primary concern has always been Laelia and the baby, and as long as they’re fine, I feel reassured. But now, the dream seems to dredge up fears that are otherwise buried.

Could it be that my recent binge of horror movies is catching up with me? I’ve devoured a lot of them lately while Laelia is busy with work or otherwise occupied. But even as I try to connect the dots, I can’t recall any film that would account for the distressing, vivid illusions plaguing my mind.

With the wind whipping my hair into disarray, I pull it back into a loose bun with a hair tie I have on my wrist. I zip up my leather jacket, hoping it will shield me from the cold, though the day’s bleakness suggests that it will be a tall order. Thankfully, I have my headphones and the song “Against The Wall” by Mason Hill to help drown out the world as I make my way through town.

Music is my sanctuary, a means to disconnect and find solace amidst chaos. Laelia has her own refuge in the form of an ever-growing collection of books, a habit that has notably slowed down in the past month. The usual influx of book deliveries has ceased, a stark contrast to the routine she’s maintained before the accident. Perhaps she’s finally focusing on her towering to-be-read pile or, like me, preparing for the baby’s arrival.

As I near Lola’s Bakery, I notice Milo, Angel’s West Highland Terrier, secured to the bakery’s chalkboard. Angel is visiting her mother at work, and Milo’s enthusiastic tail-wagging catches my attention. I bend down to greet him, pausing my music as he stands on his hind legs, eager for affection. Despite his small stature—likely the runt of his litter—he exudes charm and warmth. If it were up to me, I’d gladly take him home, but I know Meatball and Angel would miss him too much.

Scratching behind Milo’s ears, he licks my face, eliciting a laugh from me. His boundless joy and the affection in his hazel eyes provide a welcome distraction from earlier events. As he lets out a contented bark, I feel my mood lifting.

The jingle of the bakery door announces Angel’s arrival. With her striking blue eyes and tanned skin that seems to capture the essence of the sun, she resembles her mother Lola, though her vibrant green hair gives her a unique touch. Over the past two years, Angel has been a frequent client of mine, and despite initial reservations from her mother, Lola has come to accept my role as her tattoo artist.

Angel approaches us, her bright demeanour slightly dimmed as she notices Milo’s quietude. “I wondered why he was being so quiet,” she says with a distinct accent. “He usually barks at everything, even a stray leaf.”

I look down at Milo and nod. “He’s a good boy and the cutest dog ever,” I reply, continuing to shower him with affection.

Angel’s expression softens as she glances at me. “Mum told me about the car accident. I’m really sorry.”

I shrug. “It is what it is,” I say, offering a faint smile.

Her eyes widen in surprise. “I’m amazed you’re handling it so well. I don’t think I would if I were in your shoes.”

I shrug again. “It wasn’t that bad. We lost the car, but that’s the extent of it.”

Angel starts to say something more, but Ethan suddenly appears, nudging Angel with a mischievous grin.

Angel’s face twists in distaste as she rolls her eyes. “Oh, it’s you,” she huffs.

Ethan winks at her. “Angel.”

She recoils. “You’re a piece of shit, Ethan.”

Ethan and Angel had a brief fling last year after a night out, but Ethan’s insensitive comments about her being just another experiment had left a deep rift. Despite Ethan’s close friendship with me, his behaviour towards women often makes me cringe. His attitude is one reason he hasn’t maintained a serious relationship in years.

“Come on, Angel. When are you going to forgive me?” Ethan asks.

Angel’s reply is sharp. “When you’re buried six feet under.”

Both Ethan and Angel turn to me, their eyes wide with surprise. “What?” I ask, puzzled.

Angel’s face flushes with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t mean it. I just…lost control. I didn’t think it through.”

I place a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Angel. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She glances at Ethan, seemingly taken aback by my response. I smile reassuringly and give Milo one last pat. “I should get going. I’ve got a big tattoo design to work on,” I say, catching both their attention. “Make sure Milo gets some treats from me.”

Angel’s face brightens. “Absolutely! He’ll be spoiled.”

“I’ll come with you,” Ethan says. He turns to Angel. “I’ll text you later and explain. And hopefully, I’ll get to see your bendy self again soon.”

Without hesitation, Angel smacks Ethan, grabs Milo’s leash, and marches off in the opposite direction.

Ethan rubs his cheek and watches her go. “That arse though.”

I shake my head, a small smile on my lips. “You’re a dick.”

Ethan grins. “I like it when a woman hits me like that, but only during sex. Pain is pleasure.” He winks.

“You don’t help yourself,” I reply.

He taps me on the back. “Come on, let’s head to the studio. I forgot my keys at Stacey’s.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, as we walk down the street.

Ethan is in high spirits, despite the weather. He’s whistling a tune, clearly unfazed by the approaching storm. I can’t help but shake my head at his carefree attitude.

“Seriously, Ethan, you’re going to forget your keys more often if you keep this up,” I say, trying to keep my voice light despite my mood.

He chuckles. “Hey, I’m just human. And besides, it’s always an adventure with me. Keeps life interesting.”

I snort. “Interesting is one word for it. I’d use another, but I’m feeling charitable today.”

He grins. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

We arrive at the corner where the studio stands, a cosy refuge amidst the stormy weather. A modest space, where creativity thrives amid the organised chaos of sketches, ink bottles, and tattoo machines. I unlock the door and push it open, letting the soft light spill out into the gloomy morning.

“After you,” I say, holding the door open for Ethan.

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” he replies with a mock bow, stepping inside.

The studio’s familiar clutter welcomes us. I head over to the reception desk, readying it for the day’s work, while Ethan makes himself comfortable on the couch, stretching out with a relaxed sigh.

“So, what are you working on today?” Ethan asks, glancing at the array of reference photos and sketches I’ve spread out.

I pull out the detailed plans for Taylor’s tattoo. “It’s a full-leg sleeve—floral and butterfly work, inspired by a picture of Laelia. Should be a good challenge.”

Ethan raises an eyebrow. “Sounds ambitious. I’ve seen some of Taylor’s ideas; she’s got a strong vision. You’ll make it look amazing, though. You always do.”

I appreciate his confidence. “Thanks. It’s going to take some time and effort, but I’m up for it.”

As I start sketching out the design, the rain begins to intensify outside, creating a rhythmic patter against the windows. Ethan grabs a stack of magazines from the coffee table and starts flipping through them absentmindedly.

“So, how are you doing?” Ethan asks, breaking the silence. “I know things have been a bit hectic lately.”

I glance at him, touched by his concern. “I’m managing. Laelia’s been busy organising everything for the baby. It’s surreal but exciting. We’re both just trying to get everything in order.”

Ethan’s expression reveals his dissatisfaction with my answers. “Okay. Just... if you need to talk or anything, you know I’m here. It’s important to not keep everything bottled up.”

I’m taken aback by his insistence, feeling a knot of unease tighten. “Thanks, Ethan. I appreciate it.”

He nods, though he seems unconvinced by my reassurances. “Alright. Just remember, sometimes things can seem worse than they are. Don’t let it all pile up.”

I give him a weak smile, sensing that there’s something he’s not saying. “I’ll keep that in mind.”