Inked Armour

3 HAYDEN

I shoved my feet in my shoes and grabbed my jacket from the closet.

“Hayden, wait!” Lisa called.

I spun around. “Don’t talk to me right now.”

“You need to check yourself, man,” Jamie said, coming up behind Lisa.

My eyes swung over to him as he moved in closer, probably worried about her safety. “Go fuck yourself.”

I wrenched the door open and stepped outside, slamming it behind me, but the release of aggression brought no satisfaction. It felt as if someone had dumped acid on my emotions. I passed Lisa’s Beetle and headed down the driveway. It was freezing out and I wasn’t dressed for the weather, but I didn’t care. I needed to get my ass far enough away to catch a bus or cab it home. I couldn’t be around any of them right now; I was too raw.

The door opened behind me and the thud of boots against the asphalt grew louder, so I picked up the pace.

“H! Hey, bro, hold up!” Chris called out.

Just what I needed. When his hand came down on my shoulder, I pushed it off and kept going. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Come on, man. I know you’re upset but you can’t walk all the way home.”

I wheeled around. “I sure as hell can. There’s no way I’m getting in that car with those two.”

“Tee only got in touch with Sarah last week. And it wasn’t to chat. She had some assignment that needed to be handed directly to her adviser, so she called in a favor.”

“What about Cassie and Lisa?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you come back in and you can ask them.”

I shook my head. “I need space.”

Chris didn’t follow me any farther. He knew when to leave me alone. I was too volatile, and it was best for everyone if I had time to cool off. A few minutes later, Nate’s black Mercedes pulled over ahead of me. The passenger-side window whirred as it descended, and he leaned across the seat and opened the door. “Why don’t you let me drive you home.”

He’d drive five miles an hour all the way to Inked Armor if I refused to get in. I dropped into the passenger seat and plugged in the seat belt.

“It’s okay if you’re angry,” he said as he pulled back onto the road.

“We’re not talking about this,” I snapped.

“That’s fine, too.”

I fiddled around with his radio, unable to tolerate the strained silence. All the stations were preset to ’70s rock.

“Can I just say one thing?”

“You’re going to anyway, so you might as well.” I stared out the window. I could see my reflection in the tinted glass every time we passed a streetlamp, and I looked as destroyed as I felt.

“This is only the second time Tenley contacted Cassie since she left. The first time was to let Cassie know she had to leave for a while, and to provide a list of potential employees while she was gone. Both times, she asked about you.”

I didn’t reply. I had nothing to say. So what if she asked about me? Her worry seemed less about how I was doing and more about the remorse she carried around with her. It was like a cinder block tied around her neck.

When we reached Inked Armor, I grabbed on to the door handle, but Nate hit the lock button and held it down. “Hold on.”

I sighed. “I’m not in the mood for this shit.”

“Too bad, because I have something you need to hear. Bad things happen to people, Hayden. All the time. You have firsthand experience with this. It’s not something we can control, but we do choose how to handle it. You need to start dealing with what happened to your parents. It’s not going to go away just because you want it to.

“Cassie is terrified you’re going to self-destruct all over again. When she lost her sister, it was tragic, and watching you almost go down along with Eleanor nearly destroyed her. Don’t put her through that again.”

“You’re seriously pulling a guilt trip on me over this?” I asked, irate.

“You need to get some help. If that’s the only way I can get through to you, then so be it. I won’t see my wife in that much pain again.”

The click of the door’s unlocking was my signal to get out.

He peeled away from the curb, tires squealing. The guilt hit its mark. Of course Cassie suffered after she lost her sister—but I hadn’t taken into account how my actions affected her. She and Nate had taken me in despite the problems I posed. I hadn’t been able to tolerate their care or concern and I’d gotten away as soon as I could.

Nate was right. I was walking a fine line toward imploding again. Not much about me had changed in the last seven years.

Feeding TK was the first order of business when I got home. After she scarfed down the contents of her bowl, I tucked her under my arm and went to Tenley’s apartment. After opening the door, I took off my shoes and placed them on the mat beside Tenley’s ratty, purple Chucks. I did a walk-through, checking all the rooms before I returned to the kitchen.

The fridge was almost empty: a package of processed-cheese slices, condiments, the beer I’d brought over, a pitcher of water, and the lemons I used to keep her fridge smelling fresh were all that remained.

I grabbed a beer and popped it open, then went through the fridge and tossed anything that had gone off. Next, I went to the cupboard under the sink and retrieved a new box of baking soda. Punching the perforated edge, I set it on the bottom shelf and chucked the old one. Then I threw out the lemon half from yesterday and replaced it as well.

Her bathroom was next. Though it was unused, I cleaned it out of habit. The bedroom was always my last stop. Unprepared to go there yet, I went back to the living room. A copy of Tenley’s thesis paper was on the coffee table, which I read whenever I stayed for a while. Tenley was smart, and her paper made me question what the fuck her adviser’s problem was. He had her running in circles for no reason.

All the curtains were pulled shut. I swept them aside, looking down at the Inked Armor sign across the street. Tenley would have been able to see right inside the shop from this vantage point, just as I’d been able to see inside her apartment from the window in my bedroom. God, it felt like a lifetime ago that I’d creeped on her while she was in her kitchen, making a drink. Even then I’d wondered if she was hiding any ink. I’d gotten the answer to that question, but the cost seemed pretty fucking high now.

I dropped the curtain and turned to face the empty living room. I scanned her bookshelves, pausing at the photo albums at the top. The albums became newer as they progressed across the shelf. Everything I was looking for and all the missing pieces would be in there. I tipped one of the spines and pulled it down.

The faded leather binding was well worn; it looked to be as old as Tenley. Inside were faded Polaroids with names and dates written across the bottoms in neat cursive. Tenley’s parents smiled out from the page, oblivious of what would become of them so many years in the future.

Tenley was almost the spitting image of her mother, from the arch in her eyebrows to the pout of her lips. But her gray-green eyes were from her father, along with the impish glint. I followed her parents’ story from college and dating to holidays on the beach and finally their wedding. A couple who’d appeared in many of the college photos stood beside Tenley’s parents as the best man and the maid of honor.

In the second album babies appeared for the maid of honor and the best man, and the carefree faces of youth showed the harder angles of adulthood. Tenley’s mom held those little bundles of poop with the fascinated awe reserved for infants. First there was a dark-haired boy, and a few years later a fair-haired one appeared. The names Trey and Connor were written elegantly at the bottom. Tenley had known the guy she was supposed to marry her entire life. I put the album back and withdrew the next one.

On the first page, Tenley’s mother stood on the back porch of a clapboard house, a pink streak of cloud hovering along the horizon. A small smile played on her lips, and her hand rested low on her stomach, a soft swell barely hidden under her dress.

Then Tenley arrived. The pictures of her as a baby, a toddler, a little girl, were endless. Every so often, the other family would appear in the albums. As the kids aged, it became obvious which one was that dick Trey. He had the same hard look about him, as if the world were a pain in the ass and he couldn’t stand dealing with the people in it. His smiles were forced, his stare disengaged. Connor, the blond one, was his antithesis. His smile was bright and open, his fascination with the world and Tenley clear from an early age.

I pulled the rest of the albums off the shelf and pieced together a more comprehensive picture of Tenley’s life. She grew up in a middle-class family, passing through her teen years with no gawky phase. She clearly spent a lot of time with her family, or at least they captured those moments as often as they could.

Photos showed her with her father sitting in the front seat of a fire truck, his pride and her excitement obvious. In others, Tenley and her mother stood side by side in the kitchen baking cupcakes, or planting flowers in the garden. One even showed Tenley working on homework at the kitchen table, her finger pressed against her lip in fabricated concentration as she flipped off the camera. I had to look for the subversion to catch it. A glimmer of mischief was always present in her eyes. It gave the impression she was waiting for the camera to leave so she could get up to no good.

I leafed through pictures of her graduation from high school and her transition to adulthood. At prom she wore beat-up running shoes and a hideous dress while her date wore a tux. Those photo albums were vinyl instead of leather, covered in band stickers and filled with pictures of Tenley and her friends. Her outfits were grew more outrageous once she hit college. Nothing ever matched. She often paired vintage with frilly. Self-portraits showed her with each addition of steel up the shell of her ear, and in others she was with Connor. So many of her with Connor.

He was broad-shouldered and blond, a pretty boy who played sports and wore polos emblazoned with a Cornell Law School logo. When she was with him, her style changed completely. Apart from her shoes. She was forever wearing ratty sneakers. She was always smiling in those pictures, eyes on the camera as she stood within his protective embrace. His expression bordered on a smirk, coveting a trophy no one else could have.

Near the end of one album Connor disappeared for a while, and some of the girlfriends I’d seen interspersed throughout figured more prominently. Connor reappeared in the last album, around the time Tenley graduated from college. The genuine happiness I’d seen on her face before was gone; she smiled but seemed distant, preoccupied.

The engagement photos made me feel betrayed. The ones of her trying on wedding dresses and laughing with girlfriends made me livid. Nine memorial photos at the end turned me inside out. No way in hell would she have ended up with someone like me if she hadn’t been in that plane crash. The knowledge was caustic on so many levels.

I reshelved the albums one by one, sliding the last one into place. Then I noticed the one on the shelf below.

Bound in black leather, it was brand new. I picked it up hesitantly. The first pages contained pictures of Northwestern’s campus, and the storefronts of Serendipity and Inked Armor. Shots of her life in Chicago followed. Cassie, Lisa, Sarah, Jamie, and Chris all appeared in various photos. Others were of her peers at school, even that douche bag Ian. But those were few and far between.

There were lots of shots of TK—and even more of me. Pages and pages dedicated to me. Me in her kitchen, washing dishes. Me glaring at the pile of books on her coffee table; another of me arranging them. My arms appeared in several close-ups, with even more of my profile, particularly the side with the viper bites. She’d even taken pictures of me in Inked Armor. She took such care to label them all with dates and explanations. I didn’t know what to think.

The album was only half-full. The last page had been titled “Date Night,” but there were no pictures.

I shelved the album and headed down the hall to her bedroom. TK was in her favorite place; snoozing between the pillows. I lay down beside her, more drained than I remembered being in my life.

Unable to stop my eyes from closing, I let the memories of being here with her wash over me. When my parents died, I missed the little things, those small reminders that they were gone and never coming back. With Tenley I missed everything, all the time. Right now I missed the feel of her body beside mine. I missed waking up sweaty because we’d been spooning for hours. I missed rolling over and pulling her into me, the tickle of her hair on my face, the smell of her skin. As I was sucked into the void of sleep, I wondered if I’d ever get any of that back.

Death had a distinct odor. I didn’t recognize it when I snuck in through the front door, but the heavy, metallic tang in the air made me pause. With a frown, I stepped inside the foyer, moving right to avoid the creaky floorboard. The smell was all wrong. My drug-hazed mind couldn’t process the sensory information as it zipped through my neural receptors, heading straight to the black abyss of narcotic numbness and into mass confusion.

The door closed with a quiet click; in my paranoid state it sounded like a bomb detonating. I cringed and waited to be blinded by the living room light. Nothing happened, though. The house stayed silent. Mom occasionally waited up in the rocking chair, the most uncomfortable piece of furniture in the house. It ensured she wouldn’t fall asleep.

I shed one sneaker and then the other, arranging them neatly beside Dad’s polished black dress shoes. They weren’t supposed to be there. My parents weren’t due home for another hour, and I wasn’t supposed to be out since I was grounded. The decoy I’d set up in my bed must have worked.

I treaded stealthily down the hall, taking great care not to make any noise. Something was off, though. The nauseating odor grew more pervasive as I moved deeper into the house, and a sense of dread settled in the pit of my stomach. It had to be the pot. And the booze.

I hit the staircase slowly, just lucid enough to know my balance was shoddy. A shadow moved across the landing, scaring the piss out of me. Mischief, the ancient family cat, padded down the hallway, meowing loudly.

“Shh, shut up, Mis,” I hissed. I leaned down and stroked her back in hopes of quieting her, but the wailing continued. “Shut it!”

Worried she would wake my parents, I scooped her up. She burrowed into my arms, her little body trembling, nails digging into my skin. I should have known then. Mischief never came to me, not even when her food bowl was empty.

No muted glow came from the bathroom, where a tiny night-light usually shone the way. The metallic odor saturated the air now, cloying.

Pale light seeped out from under my parents’ bedroom door. Through the pot-induced haze of denial, the unwelcome truth surfaced. The smell was disturbingly familiar. Copper. Iron. Salt.

I pushed the door open a crack and peeked inside. The first thing I saw was the painting of the red angel, lying on the floor. I opened the door a little more. Mischief screeched and clawed out of my arms in an attempt to escape what I couldn’t. But I didn’t even feel her nails.

Dad lay on his side in bed, his eyes wide and glassy. A brownish-red trail trickled down his forehead from the small hole there. Blood darkening to maroon marred the sheets surrounding his head. The pillow behind him was a deep red Rorschach of brain matter.

Even though I wanted to look away, my gaze shifted right. A single bullet wound marked my mother’s chest. Black-red stained her peach-colored shift, darkest in the center and brightening as it fanned out. Her eyes were open, sightless and horrified. I wondered who’d suffered the fate of watching the other die first, knowing what was coming next.

Then the scene morphed and I was no longer seventeen. The bedroom was my own. There was only one body, dressed in creamy satin, the small hole in her chest turning the pale fabric red. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t cross the threshold of the doorway to save her.

I woke with a shout. Bolting upright, I glanced around the darkened room. I was in Tenley’s bed. Heart pounding, covered in sweat, I fanned my hand out over the space beside me, hoping to find her warm, whole body. There was nothing but emptiness. Panic set in, until I remembered she had left. Yet the clarity of the nightmare didn’t fade as lucidity returned.

I couldn’t get the image of Tenley’s bleeding out to stop flashing behind my eyes like a horror movie. Bile rose in my throat. I stumbled to the bathroom, blinded myself with the light, and barely made it to the toilet as I threw up. The nightmares weren’t getting better. As the scene replayed in my head, my stomach gave another violent squeeze, and the remnants of dinner splashed into the bowl until there were only dry heaves.

I stayed draped over the seat with my forehead resting on my arm, unable to move, afraid I was in for another round. I finally pulled myself up on shaky arms, supporting my weight on even shakier legs so I could rinse with water and a mouthwash chaser.

My lack of control disgusted me. After so many years, it should have been easier to deal with this shit. I turned away from the sink and glanced across the hall to Tenley’s bedroom. The comforter was bunched up and the pillows were scattered on the floor. No dead Tenley. No blood staining the sheets.

I left the bathroom light on as I made my way back to the bed. The clock on the nightstand flashed 4:47 A.M. I wasn’t about to fall back asleep, where I’d be pulled into that fucked-up nightmare again. I palmed my phone and sat down on the floor, my back against the edge of the bed. The wood frame dug in just below my shoulders; the padding of the mattress cushioned the back of my head. Tenley’s mattress was softer than mine. I liked it better.

I keyed in the password. Went to contacts. Stared at the Tenley and TK thumbnail attached to her information. I hadn’t called in two weeks, afraid she would answer, afraid she wouldn’t. But right now I needed to hear her voice, even if only the recording. I hit call and watched the screen light up, the faint ring coming through. Two rings, three . . . one more and voice mail would kick in.

But the fourth ring was cut short. I stopped breathing. I never actually expected her to answer.