Page 106 of Malaise
“Babe….” Tanya’s hand squeezes mine.
Meh. It is what it is.
“What are your thoughts on this?” Wolf lifts the notebook and sets it down on the table beside me.
We spend the next forty-five minutes going back and forth, altering details on what will become my lower-arm sleeve. He bookends roses around a girl who could almost pass for me, and ties it together with a quote on my inside forearm, written within ribbons that weave through more flowers and stars. As he applies the transfer to my skin, I reread the words I’ve chosen: It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog. A reminder of my battles with depression over the years, that it’s solely my courage and mindset that can pull me through.
“It’s going to look so amazing,” Tanya gushes from where she’s now laid out on her stomach atop the table.
Wolf leans back on his stool opposite the one I now occupy, and holding my hand, twists my arm back and forth. “Looks all right. What do you think?”
I pick my arm up and check it out, how it curls around my forearm and how he’s placed a rose to finish perfectly between my wrist bones, edging onto my hand. “I love it.”
He offered to do my other arm once it’s healed after seeing the scars forming from the burns. I hadn’t thought about how I’d feel having the pink and roughened flesh there as a constant reminder, but now he’s seeded the idea it seems only logical. Last thing I want is to look at my left arm and forever be reminded of the night I lost Den.
Wolf snaps his latex gloves on, and as he lines up his tiny plastic cups of ink, I can’t help but beam up at Tanya. “Thank you for this.”
“Don’t thank me, babe. Thank Wolf.”
“Just wait until I’m done,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t want you praising something I haven’t finished yet.”
The gun buzzes to life, and as he tells me to relax, I close my eyes and smile.
Let the transformation from schoolgirl to woman be complete.
***
Healing is an itchy process. Funny how easy you forget trivial things like that until they’re bugging you day in, day out. My supervisors at the supermarket were none too impressed with my newest addition last night, especially considering half my arm was wrapped in plastic, but what could they do other than make it known it’s not their “preferred image.”
Tanya received word while we were at the parlour when Carver’s trial will be. It’s set for Monday, which makes it understandable that I can’t concentrate on the forms spread out before me on the hostel bed.
I got accepted—approved for late entry into the course I wanted. As of February next year, I’ll officially be a full-time Veterinary Sciences student, working toward my qualification as a nurse.
Now all I have to do is make sure Carver comes with me.
I hit redial on my phone and jam it between my ear and shoulder. The tone continues while I fill in the next four fields, and frustrated, I hit End without getting through yet again.
Every day since I spoke to Mum I’ve tried to call them to see if they changed their mind by some stroke of luck. It’s my only option, considering the police won’t let me know the details of his investigation. I haven’t made another time to visit him, either, for two reasons: one, if he sees me he’ll think I’ve followed his advice with my acceptance into the course, and two, I want the ache from missing me to be as thick in his chest as it is in mine. I want him to eat, sleep, and breathe thoughts of us, of seeing me when he returns to court. I want him to long for those carefree days we spent at the motel again, so that he hopefully thinks through what he’s giving up by trying to be the martyr, and realises it’s not worth it.
I finish up the forms and slide them into the prepaid reply envelope the Polytechnic sent out with them. My phone vibrates on the bed as I set it down beside my bag.
Tanya.
“Hey.”
“What are you wearing on Monday?”
“Odd way to start a conversation,” I tease. “Just my usual. Why?”
“I’m on my way over.” The thud of a car door closing echoes in the background. “We’re going to make that dickhead brother of mine miss the hell out of you, girl.”
I’d recounted the full conversation I had with Carver to Tanya while I got my ink done, simply needing to get it off my chest and check I was doing the right thing by walking away and leaving him hanging. What if it had backfired and he’d taken it as a cue to permanently cut me loose? What if I screwed up by taking the gamble that distance would make the heart grow not only fonder, but also more fraught with need? Maybe he wasn’t that into me after all?
One conversation with Tanya is all it took to understand that yeah, he is. Carver had told me that he wasn’t his usual self around me, and Tanya had said it once herself too, but I didn’t quite believe it until she told me what he was like before the bonfire.
Jacking cars for a guy they know who chops and deals in the parts.
Shoplifting on a daily basis to get mundane things for the kitchen cupboards.