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This is a 2 part story that begins at this entry:
https://drippedonpaper.dreamwidth.org/34761.html
So I recommend reading them in order, or at least reading both of them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's strange being an only child. Am I an only child? I never know how to describe my birth order on those awkward first dates. If I say, "I had a younger brother" then it becomes a sad story, which darkens the mood on a first meeting. I don't want anyone to date me out of pity. But if I say, "No, no siblings" then, when I go home I start thinking that what if, what if we do get together? and then one day she realizes that I started our relationship with a lie? Never a good start.
So sometimes, sometimes I just don't date. I don't meet up with the "still single but very nice" cousin of a co-worker, even when they say we'd make a great couple. Just try, just try. Everyone wants me to try. Take a chance, try to make my life better.
I am someone who tries, really I am. I tried that day. Tried to pray. Tried to will Christopher back to life. I couldn't get up next to him, the paramedics made sure of that, but ... if there was a g-d who listened at all, Christopher would have jumped up and be running around today, probably still somehow making my life a living hell. I hated that kid with all the love an older brother can give.
Heck, that was 10 years ago now. If Christopher were still alive, he'd be 16 to my 26. My mom would be calling me about him bashing up the family car and taking dates to prom. Instead, it's like I'm her last hope at a happy life and I just, I can't deal with the pressure sometimes. I love Mom, I do. I would do anything to make up for my inattention that day. But some, some mistakes can't be undone.
10 years. Things change. Aunt Charlotte got divorced already. She said every wedding anniversary just made her think of how Christopher died. She blamed herself for suggesting the hotel with a pool.
I guess there is always plenty of blame to go around.
I'm tired of thinking so I look beside me. No girl in my bed so I guess my date last night hadn't gone very well. It's hard to remember sometimes. I see several empty cans by my bed so I must have bought some White Claw on my way home.
I don't think I'm quite a pass out, black out drunk, but, at 26, I'm closer to that description than I meant to be. How many of us actually are who we meant to be?
I get up, toss the cans in the trash, stumble to my restroom. Crap! There's a couple cans in the restroom too. I guess I really went all out last night.
I shower, dry off, gargle mouthwash. I don't need to have White Claw on my breath when I get to work. Work? I check my phone. Thankfully, I'm not late yet.
I dress quickly, grab my keys and get going. It's still dark as I clean off my windshield. College wasn't quite for me and that's why I keep baker's hours, rushing to work while the rest of the world sleeps. Mom wanted me to finish college, but I never got the hang of it. Too many deadlines, too many tests, too many memories of Christopher. No matter how much I studied, I always felt like a screw up so, somehow, I became one.
Mom said she'd try to pay for another semester, but there's a thing called academic probation. Eventually I ran out of those chances. It's ok. I kind of like my job.
I unlock the back door of the bakery and, first thing, start pre-heating the ovens. In the morning, it's just me and the dough. Sometimes I turn on music, but sometimes I just like the silence, broken just by the squeak of the over door, as I switch the trays in and out. I may have sucked at college, but here I am king of the bagels. My sourdough loaves are pretty great too. I finally have something I'm good at.
"But is it a viable long term career?" Mom asked yesterday on the phone.
"Well, people will always need to eat." I replied. I knew what she meant. Was there insurance? Stock options? Disability pay? The answer to all of them was no.
"But mom, I ... I like to go bake. It makes me happy when the bread rises. I ... it helps to be a little happy."
"Happy?" She echoed. I didn't know if knowing something made me happy helped her feel better or worse. I never knew what to say.
"Mom, I gotta go. Call you tomorrow. Love you!" I wasn't good at asking the hard questions. It's always easier just to hang up.
Today the bakery was pretty busy. And, end of the day, it was payday! We didn't even get direct deposit at this job, just a physical check in my physical hand. Sometimes I thought that's the part I liked the best about my job. It was physical. I could punch the dough, smell the bread baking, hold a loaf in my hands as I added it to the bakery case. Sometimes physical felt so good, rather than just clicking on screens. If I blamed anything I blamed screens. Screens, texting, myself. That's why Christopher was gone.
I walked out of the bakery, put my check in the seat beside me, and headed for the bank. This payday, I had a plan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Dark line Tattoos" was what the sign over the door said. I'd never gotten a tattoo, but today, baking away in the silence, I thought maybe, maybe a tattoo would be a good plan. Something physical to remember Christopher and who he was to me.
"Uh, how does this work?" I asked the guy sitting near what probably was a tattoo chair.
"You tell me what you want, what size, and we get it done. It's not that hard, man." The guy seemed pretty relaxed for someone who scarred other people for a living.
"Will I ....does it bleed?" I was nervous.
"Sometimes more than others. It all depends. Never had one before, huh?" I couldn't tell for sure if he was sympathetic or making fun of me.
"No, but I ...I really want one today." I tried to use my brave voice. Sound manly.
"Did you decide what you want?" He was practical.
"You can do like, outlines right? Of photos?"
"Sure, I can do anything. Mom was convinced I could even get an art degree. I told her I prefer skin canvases. That line always shuts her up!" He chuckled. Another guy whose mom was disappointed in him. I could relate.
"Well, Let me show you, could I have something like this?" I showed him a photo of spider man Christopher on my phone. "Maybe the photo, but kind of an outline photo?"
"Cute kid. Sure. Want a birth date too?"
"No, um, just the person, OK?"
I rolled up my short sleeve and he started.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It took awhile for the tattoo to heal. I'd never had one so I didn't know what to expect. No infection, thankfully. I kept it clean.
Finally, it wasn't so tender. After work that day, I went home, showered all the flour off of me. I was going to ...hmmm. Maybe I should make soup? I opened the fridge and surveyed my options. I absent-mindedly rubbed my tattoo. "What should I eat, what should I eat?" I mumbled.
"Mac and cheese!" It was...gosh, that was a kid's voice. I looked around.
"What?"
Nothing. I must be imagining things. Gosh, I'm so hungry, I'm actually delirious!
"Hmm...we do have carrots." Again I rubbed my new tattoo.
"I hate carrots." I could swear the kid's voice sounded like Christopher. I would have thought I had too much to drink, but I hadn't had any yet today.
"Chris? Is that...is that you?"
No response.
I pulled out part of a rotisserie chicken, some carrots, some celery. I grabbed a knife and a cutting board. I must be going mad.
My tattoo was itching again, I rubbed it. "I'm gonna save the world" Christopher shrieked. I grabbed the knife for defense ... or something?? What the h-ll was going on?
I looked around, looked at my hand. I ran to the bathroom so I could clearly see my whole tattoo. It looked just like it had this morning.
"Christopher?" I said. I watched the mirror as I rubbed my arm.
"Charlie? I wuv you." Nothing changed on the tattoo, but I heard his voice again, clear as day.
Did I... what, had I? I knew memorial tattoos were a thing, a way to remember our dead. I didn't know, that is, are they...are they portals? For everyone? And was this good or am I possessed?
Am I communicating with him as he was now or as he was? Where is Christopher now, beside my arm?
What do I do? What am I supposed to do with this new....power, portal, ability?
I ran back to the kitchen, and started chopping, double-time. I know how to cook. I know how to bake. I'm going to make this d-mn soup if it kills me.
I assembled ingredients and started to stir, in every way avoiding my arm.
Right now, I'm just going to concentrate on this soup.
https://drippedonpaper.dreamwidth.org/34761.html
So I recommend reading them in order, or at least reading both of them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's strange being an only child. Am I an only child? I never know how to describe my birth order on those awkward first dates. If I say, "I had a younger brother" then it becomes a sad story, which darkens the mood on a first meeting. I don't want anyone to date me out of pity. But if I say, "No, no siblings" then, when I go home I start thinking that what if, what if we do get together? and then one day she realizes that I started our relationship with a lie? Never a good start.
So sometimes, sometimes I just don't date. I don't meet up with the "still single but very nice" cousin of a co-worker, even when they say we'd make a great couple. Just try, just try. Everyone wants me to try. Take a chance, try to make my life better.
I am someone who tries, really I am. I tried that day. Tried to pray. Tried to will Christopher back to life. I couldn't get up next to him, the paramedics made sure of that, but ... if there was a g-d who listened at all, Christopher would have jumped up and be running around today, probably still somehow making my life a living hell. I hated that kid with all the love an older brother can give.
Heck, that was 10 years ago now. If Christopher were still alive, he'd be 16 to my 26. My mom would be calling me about him bashing up the family car and taking dates to prom. Instead, it's like I'm her last hope at a happy life and I just, I can't deal with the pressure sometimes. I love Mom, I do. I would do anything to make up for my inattention that day. But some, some mistakes can't be undone.
10 years. Things change. Aunt Charlotte got divorced already. She said every wedding anniversary just made her think of how Christopher died. She blamed herself for suggesting the hotel with a pool.
I guess there is always plenty of blame to go around.
I'm tired of thinking so I look beside me. No girl in my bed so I guess my date last night hadn't gone very well. It's hard to remember sometimes. I see several empty cans by my bed so I must have bought some White Claw on my way home.
I don't think I'm quite a pass out, black out drunk, but, at 26, I'm closer to that description than I meant to be. How many of us actually are who we meant to be?
I get up, toss the cans in the trash, stumble to my restroom. Crap! There's a couple cans in the restroom too. I guess I really went all out last night.
I shower, dry off, gargle mouthwash. I don't need to have White Claw on my breath when I get to work. Work? I check my phone. Thankfully, I'm not late yet.
I dress quickly, grab my keys and get going. It's still dark as I clean off my windshield. College wasn't quite for me and that's why I keep baker's hours, rushing to work while the rest of the world sleeps. Mom wanted me to finish college, but I never got the hang of it. Too many deadlines, too many tests, too many memories of Christopher. No matter how much I studied, I always felt like a screw up so, somehow, I became one.
Mom said she'd try to pay for another semester, but there's a thing called academic probation. Eventually I ran out of those chances. It's ok. I kind of like my job.
I unlock the back door of the bakery and, first thing, start pre-heating the ovens. In the morning, it's just me and the dough. Sometimes I turn on music, but sometimes I just like the silence, broken just by the squeak of the over door, as I switch the trays in and out. I may have sucked at college, but here I am king of the bagels. My sourdough loaves are pretty great too. I finally have something I'm good at.
"But is it a viable long term career?" Mom asked yesterday on the phone.
"Well, people will always need to eat." I replied. I knew what she meant. Was there insurance? Stock options? Disability pay? The answer to all of them was no.
"But mom, I ... I like to go bake. It makes me happy when the bread rises. I ... it helps to be a little happy."
"Happy?" She echoed. I didn't know if knowing something made me happy helped her feel better or worse. I never knew what to say.
"Mom, I gotta go. Call you tomorrow. Love you!" I wasn't good at asking the hard questions. It's always easier just to hang up.
Today the bakery was pretty busy. And, end of the day, it was payday! We didn't even get direct deposit at this job, just a physical check in my physical hand. Sometimes I thought that's the part I liked the best about my job. It was physical. I could punch the dough, smell the bread baking, hold a loaf in my hands as I added it to the bakery case. Sometimes physical felt so good, rather than just clicking on screens. If I blamed anything I blamed screens. Screens, texting, myself. That's why Christopher was gone.
I walked out of the bakery, put my check in the seat beside me, and headed for the bank. This payday, I had a plan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Dark line Tattoos" was what the sign over the door said. I'd never gotten a tattoo, but today, baking away in the silence, I thought maybe, maybe a tattoo would be a good plan. Something physical to remember Christopher and who he was to me.
"Uh, how does this work?" I asked the guy sitting near what probably was a tattoo chair.
"You tell me what you want, what size, and we get it done. It's not that hard, man." The guy seemed pretty relaxed for someone who scarred other people for a living.
"Will I ....does it bleed?" I was nervous.
"Sometimes more than others. It all depends. Never had one before, huh?" I couldn't tell for sure if he was sympathetic or making fun of me.
"No, but I ...I really want one today." I tried to use my brave voice. Sound manly.
"Did you decide what you want?" He was practical.
"You can do like, outlines right? Of photos?"
"Sure, I can do anything. Mom was convinced I could even get an art degree. I told her I prefer skin canvases. That line always shuts her up!" He chuckled. Another guy whose mom was disappointed in him. I could relate.
"Well, Let me show you, could I have something like this?" I showed him a photo of spider man Christopher on my phone. "Maybe the photo, but kind of an outline photo?"
"Cute kid. Sure. Want a birth date too?"
"No, um, just the person, OK?"
I rolled up my short sleeve and he started.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It took awhile for the tattoo to heal. I'd never had one so I didn't know what to expect. No infection, thankfully. I kept it clean.
Finally, it wasn't so tender. After work that day, I went home, showered all the flour off of me. I was going to ...hmmm. Maybe I should make soup? I opened the fridge and surveyed my options. I absent-mindedly rubbed my tattoo. "What should I eat, what should I eat?" I mumbled.
"Mac and cheese!" It was...gosh, that was a kid's voice. I looked around.
"What?"
Nothing. I must be imagining things. Gosh, I'm so hungry, I'm actually delirious!
"Hmm...we do have carrots." Again I rubbed my new tattoo.
"I hate carrots." I could swear the kid's voice sounded like Christopher. I would have thought I had too much to drink, but I hadn't had any yet today.
"Chris? Is that...is that you?"
No response.
I pulled out part of a rotisserie chicken, some carrots, some celery. I grabbed a knife and a cutting board. I must be going mad.
My tattoo was itching again, I rubbed it. "I'm gonna save the world" Christopher shrieked. I grabbed the knife for defense ... or something?? What the h-ll was going on?
I looked around, looked at my hand. I ran to the bathroom so I could clearly see my whole tattoo. It looked just like it had this morning.
"Christopher?" I said. I watched the mirror as I rubbed my arm.
"Charlie? I wuv you." Nothing changed on the tattoo, but I heard his voice again, clear as day.
Did I... what, had I? I knew memorial tattoos were a thing, a way to remember our dead. I didn't know, that is, are they...are they portals? For everyone? And was this good or am I possessed?
Am I communicating with him as he was now or as he was? Where is Christopher now, beside my arm?
What do I do? What am I supposed to do with this new....power, portal, ability?
I ran back to the kitchen, and started chopping, double-time. I know how to cook. I know how to bake. I'm going to make this d-mn soup if it kills me.
I assembled ingredients and started to stir, in every way avoiding my arm.
Right now, I'm just going to concentrate on this soup.
