Page 41 of Guilty Minds
“Why what? Stop talking riddles.”
“Why didn’t you fuck him?” He’s like a dangerous predator playing with his injured prey after it’s already been defeated.
My head snaps back. "Do you think I'm a whore who sleeps with the first person she meets? Why is that? Because my mother was one? Or because I live in a trailer? That's what you think?" I poke my finger between his hard pecs.
He looks around again and shrugs. “I mean, your living situation is not perfect per se.”
"My living situation is perfectly fine!" My chin lifts in defiance. "It's my home, and it's mine! It belongs to me!" I know my eyes are spitting fire right now. They may have even gotten a little red, like those crazy animals in cartoons.
“So, you bought all this shit?” He glances around with disgust.
“Yes, Justin, I bought this shit. And it’s the first home I’ve ever had on my own. I worked hard for that, and I bought it, and nobody can come into my home and insult itorme. So how about you get your ass the fuck out of here and forget how to get here for good?” I push on his chest. He doesn’t budge, but his eyes snap to my hands on his chest. I push harder. “Go, Justin. I’m tired of you treating me like shit. Tired of it! What’s your problem? What have I done to you? Huh? That you hate me so much.”
He steps forward, and I see determination written all over his face. I feel like I’m about to resolve a mystery that’s been haunting me for years.
But he never delivers, this asshole. His jaw sets, his eyes become emotionless holes filled with hate once again, and he's out of here in a second. Nice. Here we go again; every time I bring this up, he looks like it pains him to talk about it, like physically pains him, so he chooses to lash out at me and storm out. Very typical Justin-around-Kayla behavior.
Once I don’t hear his truck anymore, I head to the shower to wash off the disgusting feeling he left on me. A feeling of unworthiness. No matter how hard I try not to listen to him, he’s the one whose words hurt the most.
I rely on the water to wash off the horrible residue he left on me. But once I lather myself, the water in the tank runs out. Great. Just what I needed to finish this already shitty day.
I wipe myself clean from soap with a few wet wipes I have left and get into the bed, writing a mental note to fill the tank tomorrow, or I’m seriously screwed. Living here for so long has taught me to preserve water and gas, but evenI,a natural hoarder thanks to my very poor days, sometimes forget about refilling them.
In bed, I cry myself to sleep once again.
* * *
The next morning already sucks. I don’t have water for a shower, to flush the toilet, or anything, really. I have a jug of water that’s only enough for one cup of coffee and a quick toothbrushing. It will have to do. I pull my hair back into a low ponytail and make a mental note to buy red hair dye. The mood’s calling for it. I pull on my ripped jean shorts, white off-the-shoulder shirt, and black military-style boots and am off to the diner.
My phone pings—it's a message from TJ, the guy I sometimes sell my drawings to. He works at a tattoo shop and says my drawings are in high demand. All my money from these sales goes toward my special saving account (where I can never save), from which I pay a debt that's been owed by my family. Somehow, I ended up being the only one paying it off. Somehow my ass. I dug myself into that mess on my own and have only myself to blame. Well, myself and my fucked-up family. As I said, they had left, but their mess is still here on my shoulders.
"Need ur phoenix in large. Can u do one by this weekend?"
“Yeah. In color?”
“Yep. The guy’s loaded, will pay a tone.”
“You’re inking him?”
“Nah, he just wants the piece. Said he has somebody already.”
“Dang, sorry, man. How does he know about my stuff?”
"Said he saw the phoenix on the chick he fucked the night before, and she said where she got it from. Lol. Now he wants one 4 himself."
“Charming. You know where the phoenix will go?”
“3/4 of the back.”
“Dang. That’s a big one.”
“Yeah. I got a feeling the guy is the real deal. Might be ur shot, kid.”
“Thanks, TJ. I’ll make it happen by the weekend.”
The first time I sold my “special birdy,” as TJ calls my phoenix, was four years ago. I was just playing around with drawings and wasn’t planning on making it a business. I took one of my pictures to a tattoo salon in Springfield to put it on my shoulder blade. TJ was inking me. He asked where I got it from, and I told him I drew it myself. Then we talked some more, and he gave me his phone number and asked me to send him my other drawings. That’s how it started. He gets a special request that my art might fit and sends it to me. I'll be forever grateful to him for that.
By the time I get to the diner, I've planned the whole piece in my mind. The head will rest on one shoulder, and the wings will go for a diagonal hug.
