I tried to swipe my card to enter in my floor, but time and time again, nothing would happen. I sank to the floor as the tears blurred my vision until two elderly ladies came inside. They inserted their cards and one of them kindly asked me. “What floor are you on, dear?”
I squeaked out “Seventeen” and they punched in the number without asking a single question. Bless their hearts.
On my floor I staggered out and went straight to my room, my card working again. I made it to the bed then collapsed into a fit of tears. I cried for all my wrongs that were never righted. I cried that I couldn’t just live with the wrongs and find my peace with them. I cried for the childhood I never had, for the future I was robbed of. I cried for my parents, who I knew did love me in their own way, which made not having them around even harder to take. I cried for always being alone, for never having a vacation, for not knowing who I truly was.
I cried until there was nothing left in me to cry. And when I was weakened, exhausted by the tears and anguish, that’s when Camden came in the room.
He walked slowly to me and sat on his bed.
He waited a few moments before whispering, “Ellie?”
I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t.
“Ellie,” he said again, “I have an idea that might help you find peace.”
If he was asking me to meditate, he had another thing coming.
“It will hurt. But the results will be beautiful. More beautiful than they already are.”
That was strange enough to make me raise my head and look. He looked solemn, eyes red, hands clasped in front of him. “I’d be improving on your beauty, finding the pattern in the chaos. Making you feel proud of what you’ve become.”
I wiped my nose with the comforter. Totally unattractive. “What are you talking about?” I asked hoarsely.
He went to his stuff and when he came back, he was holding a small silver case. He clicked it open and showed it to me. It was like the briefcase full of his tattoo gear, but smaller. It just had the gun, a couple of needles, ink caps, gloves and carbon papers, plus a couple of items I didn’t recognize.
“A mini-tattoo kit,” he said. “I made it a few years ago, decided it was the kind of thing I should keep in the glove compartment. You never know when there’s a tattoo emergency.”
I pushed myself up onto my elbows and peered up at him. “Is this a tattoo emergency?”
“Ellie,” he said, sitting back down. “Let me tattoo your scars.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. “Is that even possible?”
“With old scars, yes. I’ve seen some artists turn scars into beautiful works of art. One woman had her mastectomized breast turned into a flower.”
“That would fucking hurt.” My own scars felt weird and overly sensitive if I touched them too much.
He nodded. “It probably will hurt. But you’re tough. And the pain will be worth it.”
I shook my head, trying to get some sense into it.
“Don’t you trust me?” he asked.
Well, no. I didn’t. I wanted to. But I couldn’t. That said, I had been wrong about him trying to contact Javier. And I still had his phone, and no weird calls or messages had come through. But did I trust him with my body, into making it something beautiful? Did I trust his talent and his skill—his passion?
I did.
“How much is it going to hurt?” I asked.
“A little more than your normal tattoo. I have a tattoo on the bottom of my foot. It would probably hurt just the same.”
I made a face. “Ugh, you do?”
He slid off his Reef sandals and showed me. It was the symbol for the Wu-Tang Clan.
I had to laugh. “Are you serious?”
“I went through a serious wigga phase and started listening to all this old rap. I think I knew I was going to grow out of it, hence the placement.”
I was still smiling at that. It felt good. “Boy, LA changed you.”
“Tried to change me. I found myself again.”
We exchanged a humbled look.
Then, “Will you say yes, Ellie?”
I looked down at my leg, covered by denim. What the hell. Why not? What difference would it make to me? If he could handle the Wu-Tang Clan on his sole, I could handle his art on my scars.
“This won’t interfere with our plans for tonight will it?” I asked.
He gave me a small smile and started emptying out his kit onto the luxe bedspread. “It should only take about three hours. You’ll be able to walk, though to be honest you probably shouldn’t wear pants. But it’ll be bandaged really well. No one will see.”
“Only three hours?”
“I just want to do the front of your leg, where it’s more pronounced. I don’t want to do too much at once. We can save the back for another time. If you wear a loose and long dress or skirt this evening, you’ll be fine.”
I swallowed hard, suddenly nervous. “Will I get a drink for the pain?”
He shook his head. “You’ll bleed too much. But you’ll do fine. I promise.”
And so with the curtains open and the sun blaring in, I stripped down to my underwear and lay on the towels he’d spread out on the bed.