Page 7 of Ink

I stopped in the bustling city’s center and used what little extra change I had to buy a BonIce from a man passing by with his cooler and blue penguin uniform. Sucking on the cherry flavored ice through the tube of plastic, I wandered, slipping into several locales to ask if they were hiring.

The problem with looking the way that I did was that people were reluctant to be honest. They were even more reluctant to hire me. So even as I filled out the forms and left, I wondered if they slipped my applications into the trash the moment my back was turned.

It was why working at a tattoo shop had been ideal. I didn’t have to worry about anyone judging me for the clothes I wore or the single tattoo on my arm. All I had to worry about was not fucking up.

Unfortunately, I was destined for stupidity. And by the time the day ended, I’d had no luck in snagging a single fucking offer. I got on a combi and then walked three blocks to my house. It was dark, and I was starving.

“Hola, ma,” I called out. I took my shoes off at the entrance of the house, slipping into my sandals.

Our house was a dilapidated structure of chipped and molding stone. The once-orange walls bore the evidence of years of summer storms leaking through rock and damaging the paint. Only the richer people could afford to buy the special varnish to get rid of the mold.

We weren’t rich.

Our ceiling was nothing but laminated sheets, held down on the top with heavy bricks. Water leaked through when it rained. When it was cold, we huddled beneath our tiger blankets, but even the heavy material wasn’t enough to keep it away, and when it was hot, it scorched.

I’d learned to not envy the rich, though, and I didn’t hate my house. I knew my mamá had worked hard to give us all she could after my piece of shit papá went to the U.S.A. to send money back, only to never come back at all.

At least I had a roof over my head and my own room.

“Mija, are you hungry?”

My mamá was already in the kitchen heating up tortillas on a comal. Nobody else was around–likely retired to their bedrooms given the late hour–so the food was obviously for me. She didn’t even need to wait for me to answer before she pulled out a plate.

“What’d you make?” I slid into the seat at the table.

“Frijoles,” she answered. “And eggs with green beans.”

My stomach gave a growl. A simple meal, but there was something comforting about it. Funny how I thought that now that I was older. How food I’d gagged over when I was a kid was something I’d learned to appreciate later on, if only because now I knew the struggles and what it took to put food on the table. But also, it tasted like nostalgia.

My mamá sat across from me as I started digging into my meal.

“How was work?” she asked.

I swallowed down the green bean that threatened to turn to lead in my throat. “It was good.”

“Is your boss still giving you a hard time?” The scowl was evident in her voice.

“He’s starting to act a bit nicer,” I lied with ease, scooping beans up with my tortilla. It was easier to stare down at my plate and avoid her gaze than to face her.

“That’s good, mija. I’m tired.”

I looked up then, noting the dark circles under her eyes. My mamá ran a small kitchen a few blocks away, selling comida corrida to people passing by. It did okay, but it meant she was constantly on her feet cooking. Working hard to earn money to help put food on the table.

Food I was consuming but not contributing to, because I’d gotten fired and probably wouldn’t be paid for the days I had worked, considering how angry Ink was when I’d left.

My heart began hurting and I put my tortilla down. “Go to sleep, ma,” I said. “I’ll clean the kitchen up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s okay. I won’t be long.”

She smiled and stood up, her knees creaking with the action. She groaned as she turned away and made a slow walk towards her room.

All the while I could only stare at her back and gnaw hard on my bottom lip until I tasted blood.

Chapter Four

Ink

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