Rick laughs and slaps a hand on Colter’s shoulder, gesturing for me to go in the basement. A stab of fear slips through me and I pause at the top of the stairs.
Rick goes down first, leaving Colter just below me. He turns around and looks up at me. “You don’t have to do this. You can change your mind.”
I snap out of the fear. What am I afraid of? I want to die. And for some reason, I trust Colter. As long as he’s around, I really believe I’m safe. “No, I want to do this.”
He lets out a sigh. “Okay, come on.”
The basement is filled with dark colors and photos of a pilot that looks my great-grandpa’s age. One picture has the pilot standing beside his plane, his helmet propped at his waist, squinting in the sunlight.
“My grandpa was a war vet,” Rick says from across the room.
I run my finger over another photo with the pilot. He’s smoking a cigar beside the same plane in the other photo, grinning at whoever was taking the picture. “My great-grandpa has some like this too.” I turn to see the rest of the basement.
Rick slaps his hands on a black leather chair. “Sit.”
I glance back at Colter. He places his hand on my back and gently pushes me toward the chair. “He’s a little rough around the edges, but you can trust him,” he whispers in my ear.
My body shivers involuntarily. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Colter or Rick. Colter chuckles behind me, and Rick shakes his head. I sit in the chair and take a deep breath. I know it will hurt. I want it to. The more pain the better.
“It stings a little, feels like a lot of pressure pushing down on your skin, but your body gets used to it,” Rick says.
I nod.
“Where do you want it? Colter didn’t say.”
“My shoulder blades.”
“So what do you want?” he says, screwing a needle on what looks like a small gear.
I glare at the contraption he built and the needle at the end of it, and gulp. “I’ve gotten shots before, but it never looked like that.”
“Relax. It only stings. I can tell you’re tough.”
He brings out a folder of fonts. I pick a beautiful loopy one, but make sure it’s legible. I raise my chin, reach into my pocket, and hold out the paper with the lyrics. “I know it’s a lot.”
Rick shrugs and takes the paper. “I can do words. In this font?” he says pointing to the one I chose.
I nod and point to my left shoulder blade. “I want the first lyrics here. They’re from one of my favorite bands, Pearl Jam. ‘Now my bitter hands cradle broken glass of what was everything.’ Then a space, then, ‘All the love gone bad turned my world to black.’” I point to my other shoulder blade. “Here’s where I want, ‘I know someday you'll have a beautiful life, I know you'll be a star in somebody else's sky.’ Then, ‘As the curtain comes down I feel that this is just goodbye for now.’”
I thought about picking lyrics from an eighties song, but none had the right feel. I needed them to be perfect for this. Rick sets the sheet of paper down on the wood end table and smooths out the wrinkles. “Deep. What made you pick these?”
It’s my suicide note. But I don’t say that. “Just some lyrics and verses I like.”
Colter gives me a weird look. “Wait.”
I glance at Rick. “Do it, please.”
Colter grabs my arm and yanks me out of the chair. “What the hell are you doing?” His tone is threatening and his voice shakes like it did in his car when he figured out what I was really doing the night I tried to return the gun.
“I told you I wanted a tattoo.”
“That’s not a tattoo, that’s a fucking letter.”
I jerk my arm out of his grip. “So, maybe it is.”
“But, I thought . . . .”
I lift my head so it’s as even with his as I can get. I’m still a couple of inches shorter. “You’re either with me or against me.”
“Jesus, Ell. It doesn’t have to be like that.”
I get back in the chair, making it rock to the side.
Rick steps back and holds the machine in the air. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just a difference of opinion.”
Colter folds his arms across his chest and glares at me. “Rick, don’t do this. Can’t you see what she’s doing?”
“It’s not my decision, man.” He turns toward me. “Do you want this tattoo?”
“Yes, I do.”
“She’s not even eighteen yet,” Colter blurts out.
I glare at him and shake my head in warning.
Colter won’t look me in the eye.
Rick sighs behind me, sits back in his chair and sets the machine down. “Look, I don’t know what you two have going on here, but I need you to make up your mind.”
“I want the tattoo. I paid you already and my parents know I’m doing this. I can have them sign something but we’d have to go back to Grand Creek and I’d really rather just get it done now if I can.”
Colter slouches in defeat.
Rick ponders my dilemma for a moment then asks, “What color?”
I lift up my shirt and gaze at Colter. “Black. All of it needs to be black.”
The grind of the machine comforts me. The pain is coming.
15