Page 6 of Tears of Ink

I sigh but carry walking silently on.

“Are you dreaming again?”

There isn’t any point lying. “Yeah, a little, just occasionally.”

“And you haven’t heard from your old man?”

I snort. “No, though I’m not surprised.”

“He’ll come around.”

“I don’t want him to. It’s better this way.”

There’s a pause, and I can’t help but focus on the rasp in his breath. It’s getting worse. I need to try to visit him over this holiday. An unsettled ache shifts my stomach when I think I might not get that many chances to see him again. Although I guess my skin will always remind me of my favourite “uncle”.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Faith. Anyway.” His voice picks up. “Talking about lightning bolts, guess who came into the shop yesterday?”

I roll my eyes. It could be anyone, Brighton is a big place. “Surprise me.”

“That guy, the one who messed you around.”

Another eye roll. Narrow it down. I snigger at my own dramatics. No one’s really broken my heart. Truthfully, I don’t have one for them to break. If you lock something up so tight that no one can touch it, it keeps you safe. Keeps you whole.

It leaves me to roam with my body and mind, mapping the journey of my life on my skin. All the while the space above my heart remains untainted, untouched, uninked. Mine.

“Yeah, what did he want?”

“A tatt. What a loser.” A spark crackles down the line.

“Al, are you smoking?” I’m genuinely shocked.

“Faithy, babe, I’m on my way out anyway. Fuck if I’m not going to enjoy myself while I go.”

Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. Al would hate my tears, hate my sadness. “They still might find a cure.”

“It’s lung cancer, Faith, I think I’m fucked.”

“Bout time you got laid.”

He roars with laughter, and I grin. “So, tell me about Stuart’s tattoo.” I’m outside the door to the upstairs studio on campus. It’s only a couple of roads from the small apartment I call home.

“I got Dan to do it.”

“Dan?” I frown as I slide my key in and out of the lock.

Al snorts some more but I can hear him trying to control his devilish cough. “I told him to do his shittiest job ever.”

“Did he?”

“I got him to take pictures, I’ll send them over.”

“Al, that’s not professional.”

He chuckles again, this time breaking into a cough. “Have you thought of coming back to the shop for the summer? We could use you. It’s going to be hot and you know that means lots of drunks who lose all common sense.”

“Your best customers then?” I chuckle a little clutching the phone. I don’t want this call to end.

The echo of the hum of machines, the tang of disinfectant and cleaner barrages my memory. I can’t go back though.