Page 8 of Tears of Ink

Uncertain I open the laptop back up and swallow down more wine.

Faith Hitchin: I’ll meet Mrs Fairclough and see what she says.

Gerard Steers: So I should let you know it's actually Baroness Fairclough…

I splutter on my wine. Baroness. Is he having a laugh?

Faith Hitchin: You’re kidding, right?

Gerard Steers: I’m not a joker.

My heart palpitates. I can’t meet a Baroness… look at me for fuck's sake. I’ve never cared about my choices, never once questioned why I’ve done what I’ve done. Each touch of ink a cathartic release from a memory I’ve wanted to forget.

But right now, I wish I’d left it at a sleeve, maybe half a sleeve.

There is no way a Baroness will allow someone who looks like me into her house. I’d be wasting her time and my own. Artists are loose with rules and regulations. But I’ve taken those rules and destroyed them with my hammer of pain.

Gerard Steers: have you slumped into a coma of shock?

Faith Hitchin: Maybe.

Gerard Steers: Get some sleep. It’s the end of term in a couple of days, but you’ve still got to look interested during my science of materials lecture tomorrow.

Faith Hitchin: I’m an artist, not an actress.

Gerard Steers: You wound me with your sharp words.

Faith Hitchin: Insert *smiley face* here.

I giggle. It’s easy to roam into flirting behind the safety of a screen. I could close my eyes right now and think of the night we’d spent together last summer. Hot and sticky, he’d taken the time to explore every inch of my skin, and every tale marked on its surface. It had been intimate, revealing, and I’d surrendered to his touch as a friend, lover, and student. I couldn’t allow the night to roll into more, but it had been sweet while it lasted.

He was probably the last decent lay I had.

Thinking about it makes me ache for a physical release. The wine is swilling around my head, those beer goggles slipping back into place.

I don’t want anything other than a nameless face on me, inside me, smothering me with every sensation under the sun.

My eyes drop to my lightning bolt. Curse that dream for making me remember the scorch of the burn. I’ve always managed to keep things locked and in place. Now the memory is running free, careering like an out of control freight train.

I must remember to get Al, or Dan, to send me the picture of the tattoo. I hope it’s bad, real bad. Silly, to hold on to the past from eight years ago, but my history is a dark demon that lives in my soul.

I fought to free myself from its sharpened claws, but it’s never far behind, chasing me, tempting me, whispering in my ear. Goading me to step back and reclaim the misery I ran from.

Ignoring the unsettled sensation building from my tummy and shifting through my body until my limbs ache, I swipe my thumb over the surface of my phone, scrolling through my contacts before hitting FaceTime.

“Hey.” I light another cigarette with my greeting and watch smoke curl into the air.

“Faith fucking Hitchin. I thought you’d flown to the moon, Sista.”

I laugh and stick my tongue out. Abi laughs and sticks her own tongue out. What did two best friends do before video-calling?

Brighton isn’t far away, just a train ride, but sometimes, since I left, it seems like the other side of the earth.

“How are the kids?” There are shouts in the background, a clamour of screeching despite the late hour.

Abi and I have been friends for fourteen years. While I fell apart and faced my demons, allowing the truth of the past to tear me into a million tiny shreds of regret, Abi had two children. I don’t know how it happened. One day I woke up, coming out of the fog of destruction, to find my oldest friend had grown up.

“Fucking awful. I kid you not, Faith, don’t ever have kids. They are a curse on all existence.”