These words are mine, and I dare you to repeat them. Life is too complex for simple answers, but it is too simple for complex ones, yet one can have rather simple or complex answers, anyway. It’s a paradox, really. It is true, but it is also false.
I can safely say that no one would be guessing when saying that I’m reckless. People cringe upon hearing my name. Parents shake their heads and thank the lord almighty that I’m not their child. Don’t get me wrong; I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not perfect, but at least I don’t go around judging people. I’ve always been the trouble maker at school, at home, out in public. This would be one of the few things my parents would be quick to agree on.
I heard an interesting rumour about myself a few days ago – that I was a badass bitch from hell that scared the living daylights out of people. I was offended. C’mon guys, I’m the badass bitch from hell. It’s not a surprise that I scare some people, but it’s not like I look like hell. I have several tattoos, and maybe a few too many piercings, but it’s not like I have a demon’s face, or something of that accord.
Do you know what really gets to me? People take one look at me and stereotype me as ‘horrible’, ‘evil’, ‘demonic’, even, but refuse to think of me in any other way. I wish people would stop throwing their misconceptions and stigma around for one minute and realise that how I look has hardly anything to do with how I act. The truth is, you could dress me up in ribbons and frills, but when it came down to it, I’d still be the boss ass bitch.
My good-for-nothing mother claims that I have no right acting the way I do when there are ‘people in the world who are less fortunate’. If you were looking at me, I’d roll my eyes. I apologize, mother dear, that I’m so scarred for life that I throw myself away just to forget it all. I don’t want to hear it, so take it up with someone who does.
My father tells me to ‘just up and say it’; to tell people what’s been bothering so very much, lately, so I will, just up and say it. My uncle just died. One of the few people in this small world that I actually enjoyed spending time with lost his battle with cancer a few weeks ago. This is great, everything just got really dark. I figure that that’s always been the trouble with my life – I lose the few people I’m close to, whether it is to death or a breakdown in relationship, and I have trouble accepting it and letting go.
As it were, I’ve slipped into what feels like a conscious coma. My therapist claims that I’m suffering from post-traumatic stress and mild depression. She told me that it was a reflection of how my Aunt Kat has been dealing with his death. They were sou-mates, and it’s hard to lose the most loved-one in your life. I’ve always strived to be like my Aunt Kat – she’s my role model, so when she’s feeling absolutely awful, how would one expect I feel? So, in reflection, I have been depressed because of my Aunt’s depression due to the close relationship we share. She is more a sister to me than an Aunt; it helps that she’s only five or so years older than I am.
I don’t understand why such terrible things must happen to such amazing people, but they do, and there’s nothing we, walking chunks of meat, can do about it. It makes me sad, and it makes me cry, but it overall just makes me angry. How can people say that they’re bringing justice to the world if things like this are still happening? I miss my uncle and I want him back, but I’m not sure if I want it more for my sake or for my Aunt’s.
I wince as the tattoo artist beside me drags the needle over my skin again. I guess you could say that I’m getting this tattoo in honour of my uncle, but I think that would be a lie. I could just buy flowers to place on his grave, although he hated flowers. Deep, deep down inside me is the real reason I get tattoos, buried under all of the crap I’ve had to deal with: tattoos physically cover things up, and if I can’t smile to hide my pain, why not cover it with art?
My parents don’t agree with me, they tell me art belongs on walls. No one, not even my mother, can tell me that I can’t be a masterpiece. She actually told me, after a heated argument about my amazing uncle (whom she never liked. It was something about him hurting her little sister. What does she care, though? They’ve always been butting heads) that if I miss my Uncle and my Aunt so much, then might as well move into their house. Let’s get one thing straight: I would love that. I fact, I love the idea so much, that I made my mother a deal: I’d never bother her again if she allowed me to move in with my aunt. Apparently, she hates me so much that this offer was from Heaven. If it helps her sleep at night, I’ll let her think that.
“How long will it take to finish this tattoo?” I ask the artist. He smirks at me.
“It won’t take much longer.” He states, before looking to my face. “Are you having trouble with the pain?” He’s smiling, the sick son of a bitch.
“No, you imbecile, I have a plane to catch in a couple of hours.” I roll my eyes. My usual artist, Sean, is away, so I have to deal with this idiot.
I can’t really tell you how much of a relief it is to finally be leaving Plainfield, Illinois for Boulder, Colorado. My Aunt Kat was more than happy to take me in, which warms even my stone cold heart. I honestly think that she could use someone to keep her company, so, in hindsight; I’m actually doing a great favour to my favourite depressed person. (She’s my favourite depressed person because we are two birds of a feather, so there’s no need to be my own favourite person.)
When the tattoo artist is finally done, I walk for about twenty minutes down backstreets and overgrown alleyways, my left forearm wrapped in shiny clear cling foil. I take a few moments to gather myself before entering the hell-hole of a house that my dysfunctional family has going on here. I rush up the stairs to my bedroom, hoping not to be spotted by my mother. I pull a hooded jacket over my head, covering my new tattoo – no one needed to see that right now.
I spend a while packing up the last of my things, my mother barking up my tree to ‘be ready by three or I’m going to hell early’. Those were her exact words. When I’m sure that I haven’t forgotten anything, I pull my laptop out of my carry-on and browse my Tumblr dashboard for a while. I am rather engrossed in the chaos that is Tumblr when I practically jump out of my seat at the sound of my mother yelling at me.
"Bailey, come down stairs now! It’s time to leave!"
I roll my eyes. “She wonders why I hate her.” I mumble before replying to her in a yell just as loud as her own.
“I know you hate me – and believe me, the feeling’s mutual – but would it kill you to use a nice tone on me for at least the last few hours you’ll ever spend with me?”
I stomp down the stairs, my heavy suitcases following loudly behind. As I step to the car, I catch an eye at my mother’s expression. Her face looked like it had been carved in stone, showing absolutely no emotion. I sit in the front passenger seat as my mother closes the door behind me, my father in the driver’s seat. I watch silently as my mother stands still, my father driving away. When my mother is out of sight, I stare glumly out at the overcast sky.
The air in the car feels weird, like someone had sucked all of the life out of it. My father and I are silent for the whole car ride, which isn’t particularly unusual; my father isn’t the talkative type. When we finally arrive at the airport I get out of the car without a comment. My father is also silent. He doesn’t say ‘goodbye’, or that he is going to miss me, or that he wishes I have a safe flight. He’s completely and wholly silent. I feel my eyes well with tears as I remove my suitcases from the back seat.
I sigh to myself as my father drives away, before wiping my eyes and confidently striding into the airport, my luggage behind me. I cock an eyebrow and mutter to myself, "So, this is where it all begins."
