Page 10 of Knot All is Crystal
“He had his head stuck in a fast food bag.” The little dude was thrashing around, unable to get it off, close to whacking his head on the wall of the alley. I freed him, and he followed me home.
So now I have a dog.
“I wanna see a picture when you’re done,” she says happily. I like this tone on her.
Her phone rings, and she glances at the screen before declining the call.
But then it rings again.
She picks up and snarls, “What?” My shoulders hunch, and I focus hard on what I’m doing so I don’t strain to hear the other side of that conversation. “Yes, I know. I’m running an errand, and then I’ll be there.” She exhales heavily and rubs her face with her hand. “I don’t care, Puck, my shift doesn’t start until seven.”
Shift? I thought she was some medical person at the Design Clinic. What’s she doing shift work for?
Crystal shoves the phone back into her pocket, a storm cloud mood over her now.
I finish the tattoo in silence after several unsuccessful attempts to start a conversation. When she stands up and stares blankly at the piece in the mirror, I watch as she touches all her other pieces and counts under her breath.
It’s a ritual she does.
“…fifteen…sixteen….seventeen,” she says quietly. “Seventeen.”
“How many more until you’re done, do you think?” I ask from where I stand behind her in the mirror.
She meets my gaze, the softest, saddest smile I’ve ever seen on her face. “Oh, Gage. I’ll never be done.”
* * *
I’m still thinkingabout the look of despondency on Crystal’s face as she gazed at her new tattoo. What could be happening to her that made her feel so hopeless? The only time I’ve seen people look as sad as she does during tattoos is those who are grieving.
And what could she be grieving every three months?
I groan as I swing open the door to my shitty apartment and see the new dog bed I got Burger absolutely shredded. He sits in the pile of fluff like a king surveying his kingdom, and if a mangy mutt could look smug, he would.
I don’t have the energy to clean it up today. I was at the parlor from open until close, and my back aches from hunching over bodies all day.
My pantry is bare, and my fridge looks like the fridge at a frat party—a few condiments and alcohol, except that, because I have celiac, instead of beer, I have cider.
I peer into my freezer, hoping for something quick and easy to eat, and my greatest nemesis taunts me.
Cookies. The kind that are soldoutsideof the grocery store like they’re illicit drugs.
They have a gluten-free option, but that’s not the one I want. I want the chocolate mint one that tastes best in the freezer. I keep them for a rainy day. The type of day that requires a pick me up so necessary that it’s worth the severe cramping and potential to shit myself.
Burger growls behind me, clearly not satisfied after a day of munching on his bed, and I close the freezer with a sigh.
The cookies will live to fight another day, and so will my gut health.
After the dog is fed and I’ve got a bowl of frozen microwavable mush, I settle onto my couch and stare at my quiet television.
This is the life, right?
I have a job, a dog, and my own place. A couple of years ago, I couldn’t have dreamed of this while I was sitting in my room at my third foster home. I wasn’t a bad kid; I wasn’t getting thrown out, but I was an older teen, and many foster parents just weren’t set up to deal with a teenage boy.
Especially not one with a health condition.
But it feels like something is missing, no matter how hard I try to ignore that creeping feeling. I know I’m young, but this can’t be all there is, right?
I scroll mindlessly through social media as I stuff my face and catch myself navigating to my brother Alan’s profile.
