Saturday's Storyteller: "The air smelled of a familiar mix of cinnamon and adrenaline."
by Belinda Roddie
The air smelled of a familiar mix of cinnamon and adrenaline. Of ginger ale and sweat. Of Bengal Spice tea and unbridled rage. The scents all attacked my nostrils with the same velocity and viciousness as the fist that left a dent in the concave part of my stomach.
He had always been big and strong, and tonight, he made it very clear how big of a mistake I had made in telling him the truth. I could see the froth around his bearded lips like he was a rabid animal, the tension in his muscles as he set down the mug that he was going to fill with hot water. He tried to dump the scalding stuff from the kettle onto my body, but I evaded it just enough so that it only singed my toes after it splashed across the old linoleum. But he knew how to throw a punch. And he threw several at me, like an angry pitcher attempting to bean a batter with a sloppy fastball.
The cinnamon that plagued my nose was from the toast he ate that morning. The ginger ale, a beverage I had chosen to settle my stomach before revealing my real identity. And the tea, well...I was planning on drinking that. But not tonight. Not anymore.
When he was done thrashing me, he carved the word, "DYKE," into my arm with the serrated knife that I had just used to slice the loaf of french bread I had bought for us. He didn't bat an eye when I struggled to gather my things and stumbled out of the apartment. He didn't try to call me or stop me as I drove my way to the emergency room, where I collapsed just short of making it inside.
The wrathful red letters he had cut into me stayed, even after the swelling and pain had subsided. He had left his mark on me. But now it was time to reclaim it. Six years after I had left him and gotten my restraining order, I was going to see my friend Dawson at the Harvard Street Tattoo Parlor. What had once been branded on me as an insult or sickness would now be permanently etched on my skin as an anthem.
***
"What color did you want?"
I looked up suddenly and blinked rapidly when it wasn't Dawson staring down at me. I expected bright blue hair and a five o'clock shadow. Instead, a gorgeous woman with big biceps and an undercut was addressing me, the remains of her hair spiked up as if the bristles were intentionally standing on end.
"Sorry?"
She smiled at me. A beautiful, purple pen smile. "Dawson will be here in a minute. I'm just confirming what color you want the ink to be."
"Oh. Red, I guess. But darker."
The unfamiliar tattoo artist eyed the slightly faded brown letters that still glared from beside my left wrist. Then she focused back on me. "Who did that to you?"
"My ex-boyfriend."
"Why?"
" 'Cause I told him."
"Told him what?"
"That it was exactly who I was."
The woman somehow smiled. She nodded before checking the sketch I had provided. I was adding a border around the word, "DYKE." A single red rose. Lots of thorns. Barbed wire. Cheesy and typical, but exactly what I needed.
"I could never be so bold," she opined.
"What do you mean?"
"Just...you know." She paused, hesitated. "If some asshole had done that to me, I'd try to erase it. Not embellish it."
I chuckled. "I'm guessing you're not like me?"
"Oh, no, I'm super fucking gay," argued the woman. "But just...the word has a different connotation for me, that's all."
I understood. By that point, Dawson had arrived, and he swept me away from his fellow tattoo artist and tended to me like he would a vulnerable child. I never learned her name. But I do remember her when I look at my tattoo now.
This week's prompt was provided by Jocelyn Morton.
The air smelled of a familiar mix of cinnamon and adrenaline. Of ginger ale and sweat. Of Bengal Spice tea and unbridled rage. The scents all attacked my nostrils with the same velocity and viciousness as the fist that left a dent in the concave part of my stomach.
He had always been big and strong, and tonight, he made it very clear how big of a mistake I had made in telling him the truth. I could see the froth around his bearded lips like he was a rabid animal, the tension in his muscles as he set down the mug that he was going to fill with hot water. He tried to dump the scalding stuff from the kettle onto my body, but I evaded it just enough so that it only singed my toes after it splashed across the old linoleum. But he knew how to throw a punch. And he threw several at me, like an angry pitcher attempting to bean a batter with a sloppy fastball.
The cinnamon that plagued my nose was from the toast he ate that morning. The ginger ale, a beverage I had chosen to settle my stomach before revealing my real identity. And the tea, well...I was planning on drinking that. But not tonight. Not anymore.
When he was done thrashing me, he carved the word, "DYKE," into my arm with the serrated knife that I had just used to slice the loaf of french bread I had bought for us. He didn't bat an eye when I struggled to gather my things and stumbled out of the apartment. He didn't try to call me or stop me as I drove my way to the emergency room, where I collapsed just short of making it inside.
The wrathful red letters he had cut into me stayed, even after the swelling and pain had subsided. He had left his mark on me. But now it was time to reclaim it. Six years after I had left him and gotten my restraining order, I was going to see my friend Dawson at the Harvard Street Tattoo Parlor. What had once been branded on me as an insult or sickness would now be permanently etched on my skin as an anthem.
***
"What color did you want?"
I looked up suddenly and blinked rapidly when it wasn't Dawson staring down at me. I expected bright blue hair and a five o'clock shadow. Instead, a gorgeous woman with big biceps and an undercut was addressing me, the remains of her hair spiked up as if the bristles were intentionally standing on end.
"Sorry?"
She smiled at me. A beautiful, purple pen smile. "Dawson will be here in a minute. I'm just confirming what color you want the ink to be."
"Oh. Red, I guess. But darker."
The unfamiliar tattoo artist eyed the slightly faded brown letters that still glared from beside my left wrist. Then she focused back on me. "Who did that to you?"
"My ex-boyfriend."
"Why?"
" 'Cause I told him."
"Told him what?"
"That it was exactly who I was."
The woman somehow smiled. She nodded before checking the sketch I had provided. I was adding a border around the word, "DYKE." A single red rose. Lots of thorns. Barbed wire. Cheesy and typical, but exactly what I needed.
"I could never be so bold," she opined.
"What do you mean?"
"Just...you know." She paused, hesitated. "If some asshole had done that to me, I'd try to erase it. Not embellish it."
I chuckled. "I'm guessing you're not like me?"
"Oh, no, I'm super fucking gay," argued the woman. "But just...the word has a different connotation for me, that's all."
I understood. By that point, Dawson had arrived, and he swept me away from his fellow tattoo artist and tended to me like he would a vulnerable child. I never learned her name. But I do remember her when I look at my tattoo now.
This week's prompt was provided by Jocelyn Morton.
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