The Contradiction of Solitude(14)

My arms, encircling her body from behind, but not touching, held the guitar. “Here,” I told her. She slowly took the offered instrument, and I moved back, only a fraction of an inch.

She held the guitar naturally. Her left hand clamping down on the neck, tips of fingers pressing down on the strings. She didn’t struggle with the weight, though I knew it was heavy.

She lifted her hand and lightly touched the strings. I noticed that she was shaking and I wondered about it. But I didn’t ask. I wasn’t in the habit of prying into people’s business. I knew the importance of secrets.

Her face darkened suddenly and she jerked her hand down viciously. It was an abrupt, violent squealing of strings. The discordant tone echoed around the empty shop.

For the first time I saw true and honest emotion on her face that had nothing to do with sadness or desolation.

It was anger.

It was longing.

It was unquestionable hatred.

It was love as deep as the ocean…

“Take it,” she said, her voice cracking and broken.

I didn’t ask her if she was all right. That would have been a typical response. I didn’t do typical responses.

I took the guitar, feeling almost as though her rejection of the guitar was a rejection of me. Which was ridiculous.

“I have others—”

“I have to go.” She shook her head and turned her body away, her face concealed behind the fall of her hair.

“You don’t have to. We can leave. Go somewhere else,” I suggested, confused and bothered by her attitude. But I was also intrigued and protective at the same time.

“I have to go,” she repeated, as though not hearing me.

I reached out, not wanting her to leave without touching her. My hand grasped, almost roughly at her hair. It was warm and alive.

It was everything I expected touching her would be.

My fingers tangled and caught and I thought about wrapping my fist in the strands and pulling, stopping her from walking out the door and into the night.

“Elian,” she whispered, power in her voice that I couldn’t deny.

I let go of her hair, my gut hollow. My heart empty.

“Will you come back?” I asked her.

She didn’t answer.

She left.

But I knew.

She’d be back.





I couldn’t move. My feet were stuck to the ground.

It was the smell I noticed first.

Sharp. Tangy like metal.

It filled my nostrils and became lodged in the back of my throat. I gagged. My mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

The panic was acute but then just as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone.

A wet warmth swirled around my legs and I felt relaxed as it soothed me.

The smell didn’t make me sick. It enticed. It made me hungry.

I held my hands down at my sides, fingers parted as I dragged my skin through the swirling liquid rising…rising.

I felt myself start to sink. My body was weightless and buoyant.

I was on my back, staring up at the stars. My dad’s stars.

I looked for Emma’s and found it just above, twinkling for me.

I smiled as the blood closed over my face.



I opened my eyes. Not in terror but in disappointment.

I lay there for a long time listening to the ticking of the clock across the room.

Tick. Tock.

I listened to the rhythmic constant until the sun came up.



“This is what you want?” the heavily tattooed guy asked, holding up the drawing I handed him.

I didn’t like him questioning me.

I pointed at the drawing that I had painstakingly recreated on the sheet of white paper. “Just like that,” I told him firmly.

“And you want it here?” he asked, lifting my shirt and running his rough fingers along tender, vulnerable skin. I shivered. But not from pleasure.

I nodded, grabbing ahold of his hand and pressing his fingertips into the side of hip, just over the bone. I felt the tattoo artist stiffen and still beneath me, his breathing becoming ragged and shallow.

I smiled, dazzling and heart-stopping. I smiled to make him shut up.

“Right there,” I said softly, lying down on the cushioned seat, rolling my shirt up and tucking it beneath my bra.

The tattoo artist cleared his throat a couple of times and pulled his hand away. I shouldn’t mess with him. I didn’t want him screwing this up.

I clenched my teeth together and lay perfectly still as he put the needle to my flesh.

“Are you okay?” he asked, lifting the needle but the buzz continued to pierce my eardrums.

Was I okay?

That was an easy question for me to answer. Because for the first time everything seemed to be falling into place.

And I knew now was the time.

“I’m okay.”



The music was loud.

Too loud.

The sun was hot on my back, and there were people everywhere. Laughing. Talking. Singing along with the band.

I carefully touched the bandaged skin on my hip, wincing slightly before dropping my fingers.

I left the tattoo parlor and thought about going home but I could hear the bass off in the distance and headed towards it.

I didn’t like concerts. I didn’t like crowds. And I wasn’t overly fond of music. I didn’t follow popular bands or singers. I barely ever turned on the radio. Music was wrapped up with other things in my head. Convoluted things.