9
Jackson
We drove home slowly, Summer shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable. The seat belt had rubbed against her tattoo and she’d winced once or twice. I thought of her request, she had wanted my name under the butterfly, and a surge of something I found hard to name went through me. It was a mixture of pride, of love, of longing for the body to really belong to me, and I was in awe of her strength. She’d endured over two hours of pain, I’d seen the tears but she’d soldiered on. Her butterfly was exceptionally detailed for a first tattoo; it was a big deal. Most people opted for something simple and in one colour; she’d let me mark her, permanently, with what I believed to be my besttattoo.
However, I was also troubled. I knew she’d seen the largest cut, whether she understood what she’d seen, I had no idea. She hadn’t said a word and I wondered if she would. But I’d seen the pain flash through her eyes, and I guessed I should have been grateful it wasn’tpity.
“Don’t sit in the sun for a bit, okay?” I said, as we walked into thehouse.
“I have no intention of burning my skin any more than it already is. I want to look at it again. Come withme?”
I followed her to her bedroom. She undid her shorts and peeled off the film I’d placed over the tattoo to protect it. I stood behind her as she studied herself in themirror.
“I can’t believe that didn’t hurt,” she saidquietly.
“What?”
“The bar through youreyebrow.”
“I guess I have a high pain threshold and I’d had it done therebefore.”
“Your pupils dilated, Jack. The pain pleased you,” she said, her voice had dropped to awhisper.
I didn’t answer immediately. “Didn’t we have a conversation about thisyesterday?”
“No, we didn’t have a conversation about painpleasingyou.”
I sighed. “Summer, people get their kicks all sorts ofways.”
“You get a kick out of pain? Receiving orinflicting?”
I didn’t answer. I clenched my jaw shut, but I could feel my anxiety levels rising and I was gettingagitated.
“I saw,Jack.”
“Iknow.”
“That wasn’t a scratch from abush.”
I didn’t answer her, not that it was aquestion.
“Why?”
She turned to look at me. Her hands slowly moved to the hem of my t-shirt. I could have stopped her but I didn’t. I wanted the shame to wash over me. She slowly lifted, and I watched as her eyes widened before tears pooled in them. Her hands shook as she held my t-shirt to my chest. I watched a solitary tear roll down her cheek and I closed myeyes.
It was the touch of her lips on my skin that had my eyelids fly open. She’d placed a gentle kiss on one of the cuts. I grabbed the hair at the back of her head and pulled her head away,roughly.
“Don’t. Don’t feel forme.”
I took a step away from her but she held on to my t-shirt. I grabbed her wrists and wrenched them away. I turned and walked away fromher.
“Jack, please don’t walk away. Talk to me,” shesaid.
I stopped by thedoor.
“You want a conversation, about that?” I pointed to mystomach.
“Yes. I want to understandwhy.”
