Page 6 of Roma King
“What of it?”
“It’sRomaink, brother. All of it. If you’re so desperate to be rid of us, then why mark yourself up like that? You think you’re happy? You think this life is going tomake you happy? Trapped in an apartment, stuck there, unable to leave whenever you want? Chained to a fuckingjob? You think we don’t know about the studio?”
My grin is reckless and needling. “That apartment cost a fortune. I have no neighbors, and the view is fucking ridiculous. And of course you know about the studio. I don’t care, Patrin. It’s mine. Something of my own. A business and a reputation I built with my own two hands.” I heave a stunted breath. “I’m gonna be just fine here, brother, but thanks for your concern. It means a lot that you stopped by.”
I’m almost out of the door when Patrin says something that has my blood turning to ice in my veins. “She’ll never let you leave, Pasha. Never in a million years. If you think you can just…give upyour birthright and walk away from everything that’s expected of you, then you’re gonna have another thing coming. Do you know how many of us wouldkillto be in your shoes right now?”
My hand rests on the door. I don’t look back as I push it open and walk through it. “If my birthright is such an honor, then why aren’t you celebrating right now? You’re next in line, after all. If I don’t come back…then all of it isyours.”
* * *
“Fifteen thousand, three hundred and eighty-seven dollars.”
I cash the check Barry slapped against my chest as I left the flower markets, ripping it into pieces once the Bank of America app on my phone has accepted the deposit, and then I hurl the pieces out of the window as I burn rubber out of the parking lot.
To say I’m in a bad mood would be an understatement. I am fuming mad. So angry that my hands shake as I head across town, beelining for home.
How long did it take before I began to consider the vast loft apartment overlooking the city my home? Surprisingly, no time at all. My banishment was supposed to be a punishment, but the moment the clan left the state of Washington three years ago, it felt like a monumental weight had been lifted from my shoulders. If anyone else had been banished, they would have floundered, lost and unsure what to do with themselves without the guidance of thevitsa. But not me.
I reveled in the silence.
I reveled in the peace.
Instead of losing myself, even for a second, Ifoundmyself. I set up the tattoo shop, specializing in large, intricate pieces of bespoke, commissioned work, and I fucking thrived. There’s something peaceful about sitting for hours at a time, losing yourself in a giant back or chest piece. My brain stops scrambling, trying to make sense of the world, to wade through countless decisions and worries. The gun in my hand is my only focus. The needles, the ink and the skin: that’s all there is.
My apartment felt weird for a couple of weeks, yeah. But I had experience with being stationary, since Shelta packed me off to boarding school when I was a kid—the most un-Roma thing she’s ever done—so it didn’t take me too long to adjust and adapt.
I don’t care about moving on. I don’t care that sometimes I have to be at a certain place at a certain time to tattoo someone. Neither of these things feel like a sacrifice to me, and neither my mother nor Patrin will ever be able to understand that. They’d never leave thevitsa. They were born a part of our community, and they will die a part of it, too.
Back at the loft, I walk from one side of the space to the other. After inspecting the kitchen, I move onto the living area, and then into the far corner, where I set up my sleeping arrangements—to agadje, my living arrangements would look sparse no doubt, but to Patrin, it’d look like I’ve begun a career in hoarding. The small collection of books I’ve accumulated; the free weights, and the bench by the window; the clothes in my closet; the T.V.; the sound system, and the artwork I’ve painted and hung on the walls: it would all look like excess to Patrin and my mother. Any member of the Rivinvitsawould cringe to think that one of their own lived here on a permanent, long-term basis. There aren’t enough sinks, for starters. They’d die a death if they thought for a second that I used the sink in the kitchen to wash my dishesandmy hands. Jesus Christ.
I pace, and I pace, and I reallythinkabout what I told Patrin back at the fights. Life would be so easy if I went back to them. Money, adoration, respect—I really would have it all. But the one thing I wouldn’t have, far more valuable to me than any of that, would be missing. Gone forever, never to be seen again.
My freedom.
I would no longer befree.
And my freedom is worth more to me than anything else in the world.
3
ZARA
CYSCOM
The rest of the week passes by in a blur of phone calls. My shifts are long and torturous, and I come home every evening exhausted, both physically and mentally. There are a number of occasions where I pause to think about the little boy I spoke to, but I don’t allow myself to dwell on him. I can’t.
And each night, when I fell into bed, determined to get some well-earned rest…the payphone outside my window starts to ring. The sound isn’t technically loud enough to stop me from passing out, but there’s something unsettling about it. The tone’s just the same as any other payphone, but it’s insistent. Over and over again, the phone rings, and it rings, and rings, the sound like a drum pounding in my bloodstream, a hammer coming down on top of my head, the impact jarring me down to my bones.
No sleep, which means no dreams, which means no mystery guy when I close my eyes at night. I’ve tried not to be too disappointed. There have been occasions over the past few years where I’ve really worried about my own sanity. Is it normal to experience reoccurring dreams on this kind of scale? It’s not as if they’re the same dream every time. No, none of the dreams have been the same. I can’t remember the finer details inside the dreams, but I do know that each and every one of them has been different. Different places, different times of the day, of the year. Different scenarios. When I wake up, usually panting and out of breath, skin covered in a slick sheen of sweat, the episodes are ripped away and it feels as though there is a rent in my mind, a giant, gaping hole where the memory of the dream should be but now isn’t. I never recall his face. I never remember what he’s said to me, or what his voice even sounds like. All that remains of him once I resurface into consciousness is the lingering burn of his hands on my body, the pressure of his lips on mine, and the crippling sense of loss I feel in the hollow of my chest when I realize he, whoever he is, has gone.
The canteen is deserted on my Saturday shift lunch break. There are always between ten to fifteen dispatchers on shift together at any one time, and we’re allotted breaks three people at a time; Julia and Kent are more interested in smoking than eating when our allotted time comes around, though, so I find myself sitting alone. I help myself to a sandwich and a bottle of water, and I sit myself down at one of the empty tables, feeling like I’ve been on a four-day bender and I’m severely hungover. My muscles ache, my head’s pounding, and it feels like the very life has been sucked out of me.
I can’t go on losing sleep like this. Not because I’m missing my mystery dream guy. No, that would be ridiculous. I’m just fucking exhausted. I need some proper rest. Something has to be done, otherwise I’m going to lose my goddamn mind. Taking out my cellphone, I open up the internet and type in ‘Cyscom telephone provider customer support’ and get their contact number. Cyscom are the only company that even bother to install public payphones anymore. Their blue and white logo can be found above the handset of all the heavy-duty black phone boxes that sporadically dot the city streets—the same logo above the offending payphone that sits on the street directly beneath my bedroom window. When the bright and cheery customer support agent answers my call, I hastily choked down the dry mouthful I’ve been chewing on and clear my throat.
“Hi. I need to speak to someone about the payphone on the corner of Albertson and Delancy please.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. You have a cell plan with us?”
