If My Heart Was a Guitar

My Life Hurts More Than My New Tattoo

Getting a new tattoo hurts a lot. A piercing needle penetrating your tender skin for the sake of body art. I should know, this is my ninth time. A crescent moon. Blue. I'm not a morning person. My first tattoo on my left arm, on the inside of my forearm. To distract me from my pain, I looked at my right arm, where my other eight tattoos laid.

My Hello Kitty tattoo on the back of my shoulder, my first one. I got it as a birthday present from my dad when I turned 18; I kind of regret it, I kind of don't. Two stars, one yellow, one purple on my forearm, got those three weeks later. No meaning to those, I just like them. A black music note on the outside of my wrist. I love music, it's all I know. My parents are legendary rock stars and music is in my bloodline. Two black roses overlapping with the music note, a tribute to my parents and their band Black Roses. A dragonfly on the inside of my wrist, my spirit animal. I love dragonflies, I remember being a little girl trying to catch them and keep them in a jar as my own personal pet. A daisy on my hand near my thumb. I love daisies, flowers that bloomed near my home. A snowflake near my elbow. I love winter, it's my favorite season. Just me, my precious guitar, and a warm, toasty fire. A gold and pink seahorse on my bicep. Seahorses are my favorite animals, they're like little gem warriors of the sea. I used to have some as a kid. My parents were getting a tank for the mansion and asked me what kind of fishes I wanted and I asked for seahorses. I had two, I named them Mercury and Monroe. Too bad they were both boys because I wanted them to reproduce. I was crushed when they died. I cried for days. I cried when I saw their eyes shut. I cried when the maid took them out of the tank. I lost it when they were thrown in the trash without me saying goodbye. Life can be so cruel.

You'd think I'd be the last person to experience cruelty, since my parents are retired rock stars. My parents, Jordan and Starlit Walsh were part of the band Black Roses, my mom was the lead singer/keyboardist, my dad was the lead guitar player/background vocals. Best known for their ranging, uptempo song, "You Can't Kill Us", they were once an unstoppable band, and when my parents became a couple, they were dubbed Rock's Royal Couple, which led to a new hit song called "Rock Royalty", which poked fun at the media and paparazzi (teehee). They retired to become parents. I was conceived on their tour bus, unplanned of course, and then they finished the tour, made a few more appearances on award shows, released one more album, and called it a day. They named me Shay. The name Shay means hawk in Irish. Hawks are powerful and majestic and they wanted me to be the same way. I can't say I've fulfilled that wish.

I'm 19 and still figuring out life. I'm in college in Maine studying music and journalism. I know, I come from a famous family, I don't need college. That's why I'm here, because nobody expected me to be a college student. My dad keeps dishing out the money, but it's clear he wants me to follow his lead and go into the limelight. It'd be easy, so easy to live out my dream. But that's what the world expects, and I don't think I would earn any respect, considering my famous parents "would've handed me fame." Labelled my entire life by the press and my peers, I'll always be the daughter of Jordan and Starlit Walsh, my name doesn't even matter.
I like being far away from the glitz and glam of Hollywood, plus I enjoy the winter. I used to come here for vacations with my family growing up, my family has a summer home nestled on a quiet lake.

I'm a talented guitar player, but my dad prefers "gifted", which seemed overreaching to me, I don't like the word. I've been playing since I was ten. I had a few lessons from Dad, but he says it's all natural. I have three guitars: a hot pink Hello Kitty electric guitar, a hot pink V-shaped electric, and my special white acoustic, the first one I learned to play. I really do desire to be a guitar player, but that's what everyone expects me to do. I mean, Black Roses was inducted into the Rock Hall of Fame, released five successful albums, and were nominated for nine Grammy's, and ended up winning four (located in my parents' trophy room). Yeah, there's no pressure.
The tattoo artist was done, then he wiped around the tattoo. I looked at it. It was all red and it stung. The moon look radiating and the dark blue brought out my inner tranquility on my olive skin. I stared at myself in the mirror across the room. My piercing green eyes stared right back at me. My eyes matched my mother's while I inherited my daddy's rich olive skin. My mother's porcelain skin and stunning eyes made her a beauty, and she even occasionally modeled in her heyday. People tell me all the time I look like my mom, but I never inherited her looks, I look more like a weird, mutated, inaccurate clone of her. My mom tells me everyday I'm beautiful. That's a mother's antidote, it's healthy to many, but one big white lie to me. I looked at my pixie cut brown hair. I looked at the single light blue streak down the front, thinking maybe I should change it to purple.

Even with my parents' money and all the makeup and hair supplies I had, I still wasn't happy about my appearance. Or my life. I was a product of my parents' fame and that was all society thought of me, and maybe that's all I would be. The press and society's words eventually stick to you. Now that I was in Maine, thousands of miles away, I could see what I was made of without the media forcing labels and stereotypes on me.

I drove back to my condo in my candy apple red Porsche. Just me and Jimi Hendrix. That's the way I like it. "Foxy Lady." This was the song my dad played to pick up on my mom. They were both performing at some club when they were in their early 20's when they met. Cheesy, I know. But it must of worked, because united they stand. Still married, still planning their comeback album...three years in the making. They keep asking me to play something on their album but I've told them countless times I'm going to be a music journalist and that's that. Even though I'm on the verge of flunking out of college. I forgot to go to class today for my tattoo appointment, oops.

It gets even more pathetic. I have a boyfriend who hates me. Bentley. We've been together for six months, and it has been six months of hell. The first month was sappy and lovey-dovey, two young kids in love. He was so good looking, I couldn't get over how someone as handsome as him would ever look in my direction. During the third month, he started verbally abusing me. It started out as criticism but it evolved into full blown hate, he fed into my low self-esteem. He would tell me I was worthless and how good he is "for my famous image." I don't even consider myself famous, I consider myself the daughter of famous rock stars; nobody recognizes me on the street here in Portland, and I prefer it that way.

He hates my tattoos, he says I should get the word "ugly" tattooed on my forehead since that's what the tattoos were doing to me, might as well do it and get it over with. He moved in with me during the fifth month, not because I asked him to, he invited himself in. I owed him, he said, it's "part of being together." He's never hit me, but his presence is intimating, like walking on a battlefield of eggshells. It doesn't have to be physical for it to be toxic. I longed for the early days of our relationship where we obsessed and attach ourselves to each other. Maybe that's how we got me: make me dependent on him, be lonely but not alone. I've never broken up with someone before, he's my first boyfriend and I was terrified of the heartbreak...or how he might react. His temper has been getting worse: slamming doors, knocking things over, not even attempting to apologize anymore. 

I pulled up in the driveway. His gray pickup was already there. Sigh, here we go, I told myself. I dragged myself inside. I don't know how I managed to, but I did. I unlocked the door, walked in, dropped my backpack on the wooden floor, rubbed my shoulder; unused textbooks are heavy. I saw Bentley's shoes on the floor. I was not in the mood to get verbally bashed by this guy. My boyfriend. My first boyfriend. Why don't you just leave him, I thought to myself. I continued to think about it as I went up the spiral stairs. He was sleeping in the bed. Good, the idiotic beast is asleep, I thought. The second I turned to leave the bedroom, he woke up. 

"Well look who's home," he snarled.
I stood there, waiting for it.
"Come crawling out of your gutter?"
I didn't say anything. What was the point?
He walked over and looked me over, trying to find something to insult.
"A new tattoo, I see," Bentley said.
"Yeah..." I bit my lip.

He pinched my sore tattoo, squeezing my tender skin between his strong fingers. I gritted my teeth in pain. I tried not to let it show, I knew he wanted the satisfaction of my reaction.
"I didn't even think it was possible for you to get anymore hideous," he laughed, then released me.
"So why are you still with me?" I asked, feeling my nerves shaking with rage and uncertainty.
"Because you could never do any better than me, and I feel sorry for you."

With that he walked away. I hate my life. I hate myself more than he ever could.