...and when I do sleep...

By Rachelle King

It is decided: I will finally get my tattoo. So I walk up the steps to meet my destiny. Steps creak with each hesitant motion. Up and up I go to meet my regulated fate. I take the long way in; around the front of the parlor and into the lobby. The man behind the counter greets me, automatically recognizing my face. I walked petrified, displaying a calm façade that even I found eerie, around the counter and into the back. Could’ve just walked in through the door that leads directly into the back of the parlor. Deciding to take the long way in was a permanent invasion courteous of OCD, obsessive-compulsive disorder, my terminal illness. You see, if I had walked in through the back as he has instructed me to do when I chatted on the phone with him earlier, it would have broken the chain of repitious activity. Every other time I had walked into the door that leads in through the lobby. Instinctively, I had to do the same this day.

He asked patiently if I was ready for the procedure. Trembling hands greeted his arm as he helped me sit down. I didn’t know if I was, so I responded with a stern yes, looking him directly in the eyes so as to distract him from my apparent physical uneasiness. I lay down on the black leather fainting couch. My bear breasts clinged to the material. The contemplation of a dead animal sacrificed for my comfort crossed back and forth through my mind like a ping-pong ball. Irritated with myself already, I ignored the invasion. He loaded the gun with a clean needle. Actually, several needles. He had gone over the procedure with me, explaining the amount of needles necessary for the thick black outlines. I had agreed. He also explained the great deal of pain I would receive due to the compiled needles. I had agreed. I still agreed.

I remember walking down the whinny stairs. Sweat poured en masse out of every crevice in my over stimulated body. My clothes were soaked through. Remnants of bodily secretions permeated thorough the heavy bandages layered upon my back.

Memo stood waiting. He seemed puzzled. Almost hesitant to speak. When the words finally stuttered form his lips, I was in instant shock from their content.

“Amber, you got the wrong tattoo,” he claimed.

“What?” I was delirious with confusion.

“The wrong tattoo,” he repeated. “It’s the wrong one.”

Stunned, I stood starring at him. Rotating my head as far backward as I could, I looked down on my back. The bandages were gone. My shirt was closed in the back where before it had been open. Disillusioned, I turned suddenly to look at the front of my body. The bandages were not gone, but had reappeared on my chest and upper torso. My breasts were gleaming with blood diluted by sweat. Underneath the sticky residue was the faint residence of a girl. She had striking butterfly wings and a morbid smile that sent chills of reverberation down my neck flowing finally into my spinal cord. Wrong tattoo. It was the wrong tattoo in the wrong place. I had been cheated and misused for what psychological experiment? Shit!

I sat up straight in bed, gulping for air whose presence was running thin in the muggy, dimly lit room. 6:03 in the morning. Fuck, even when I do sleep there is always the notorious dream waiting to pervert my intelligence. I got up still struggling to breath without effort. Tripping over the pair of platforms I would never probably wear, I extended my arm out opening the window with my hand. Stale air pushed its way passed me and out into the day. What other treats will my sleep bring if I decide to visit its realm once more before the alarm clock’s wrath. Best not to find out. Best now to wash off the rank that was gradually accumulating beneath my arms and around my hairline on my forehead. Clumsily, I made my way to the overbearing door, swinging its weight back against the wall.

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