Page 8 of Tyson
Cruz would have had an aneurysm. "Messy space, messy mind, Little One."
Fuck that. My mess. My mind.
The apartment smelled like home—ink from late-night sketching, vanilla from the diffuser, and yesterday's Chinese takeout from Mrs. Chen's restaurant downstairs. She always gave me extra spring rolls, patting my hand and muttering about too-skinny artists.
Through my window, Ironridge stirred awake. Delivery trucks rumbled down Main Street. Mrs. Chen's voice drifted up as she supervised her nephew unloading vegetables. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. No Italian leather shoes clicking across hardwood.
I started coffee in my ridiculous unicorn mug—rainbow mane, glitter horn, "I'm Magical, Bitch" printed across one side. A gift from Mandy, presented with a completely straight face. The coffee maker gurgled, filling the small space with bitter comfort.
Three sugars. Then a fourth because I could. Then a fifth just to spite the ghost of dietary restrictions.
The coffee turned into liquid candy. Perfect.
I curled up on my salvaged velvet armchair, the one with stuffing poking through one arm that I kept meaning to fix. Outside, Ironridge continued its morning symphony. Safe distance between me and Denver. Between me and downtown lofts with doormen who looked the other way.
My phone sat silent on the coffee table. No unknown numbers. No blocked calls. No messages starting with "Little One" or "Baby Girl" or any of the pet names that still made my skin crawl.
The unicorn mug warmed my hands, its ridiculousness a tiny act of rebellion. Four years of tiny rebellions adding up to something that almost felt like freedom. Sugar in my coffee. Art on every surface. Messy floors and fairy lights and that guitar case under the bed holding pieces of myself I couldn't quite reclaim but couldn't let go.
Mrs. Chen's voice grew louder, scolding her nephew in rapid-fire Mandarin.
The dream faded at the edges, Cruz's voice finally silencing under the weight of morning ritual and bitter-sweet coffee. My wrist ached—phantom pain from a grip released years ago but not forgotten.
Never forgotten.
But I was here. In my chaos. In my mess. In my life built from tiny rebellions and fierce independence and the kind of freedom that comes from running far enough fast enough that even nightmares can't quite catch up.
At least not in the daylight.
By 7:30, I sat cross-legged on my living room floor with Mrs. Chen's memorial design spread before me and a bulk bag ofrainbow gummy bears at my hip. Breakfast of champions and rebellious Littles who could eat whatever the fuck they wanted.
I popped a red bear—strawberry, though they all tasted vaguely of sweet chemicals and freedom—and studied the design. Mrs. Chen's grandson, Private First Class David Chen, killed in Afghanistan four years ago by an IED that shouldn't have been there. Twenty-two years old. Loved basketball and his grandmother's spring rolls and a girl named Katie who still wore his dog tags.
The portrait stared back at me from the paper. I'd spent hours getting his eyes right—that particular combination of young pride and old exhaustion that marked soldiers who'd seen too much too soon. Around his face, poppies bloomed red as blood, red as remembrance. His unit patch—the Screaming Eagles—worked into the stem design so subtle you'd miss it unless you knew to look.
Another bear. Green this time. Apple? Who knew. Who cared.
Cruz used to count them. Every calorie tracked in his little notebook. "Sweet things make little girls hyper. We can't have that." He'd portion out my food like I was an actual child, not a grown woman playing a role. Breakfast was oatmeal—plain. Lunch was salad—no dressing. Dinner was whatever he decided I'd "earned."
I grabbed a handful of bears just because I could. Cherry, orange, mystery white flavor. Mine.
The Chinese characters for "Until Valhalla" needed work. Mrs. Chen had written them out for me in her careful hand, explaining how David had fallen in love with Norse mythology during his deployment. "He said warriors should have choices about their afterlife," she'd told me, tears steady but quiet. "Chinese heaven or Viking halls. Why not both?"
Why not both, indeed.
I added delicate clouds in the traditional Chinese style, letting them flow naturally into stripes that suggested but didn't scream American flag. Grief had no single nationality. Pride crossed borders. The design held both without making either perform for the other.
Another gummy bear. Purple. Grape supposedly, though it tasted more like purple than fruit.
This was what real care looked like. Not controlling someone's story but honoring it. Not demanding they fit your vision but seeing theirs clearly enough to make it come true. Every tattoo was trust made visible—someone believing you could carry their pain and transform it into something bearable.
David’s eyes held me. That thousand-yard stare I'd seen in the mirror some mornings. The same look that flickered across Tyson's face during his rare visits, gone before most people noticed. Trauma recognized trauma, even when neither party spoke it aloud.
I added final touches—a shadow here, a highlight there. The poppies needed to look alive even rendered in grayscale. Memorial tattoos walked a line between mourning and celebration. Too dark and they became shrines to sadness. Too light and they dishonored the loss. The balance lived in the details.
8:15 now. The shop would be opening soon, Tanya probably already there doing inventory and singing along to whatever classic rock station she'd found. Time to pack up.
I sealed the design carefully in my portfolio, separate from the wedding sleeve sketches and the random flash art I'd been playing with. Memorial work got its own space, its own reverence. The gummy bears went back in the cabinet—my stash, my rules, my sugar-rushed mornings.
