Everyone assumes that when you work in a tattoo parlor that you cover every space of your body in ink. But you know what they say about assuming. It makes an ass out of u and me.
I’ve never liked that saying.
It serves its purposes, but if you ask me, I like things that mean a little more. Call me sentimental. Chalk it up to poor life choices. But I do. Every work of art painstakingly put on my body - either by myself or someone else - means something. Bet you didn’t see that one coming, did you?
Why would you? I’m a wine-and-dine who prefers the wining to dining, and the dessert to anything else. There’s names for people like me and I don’t like any of them. I’m sure you’re creative. You could come up with something. You always have a biting remark (don’t say a word on that) when it comes to me.
I must disgust you.
I guess in some ways, it’s only natural. You’re a big, bad hunter. You kill things like me. You take your gun and hunt and bring us down, don’t you? Didn’t think I knew?
I knew.
There’s a hole in my gut that talks to me sometimes. It tells me things about you. When it grows, it hurts. And when it hurts, I learn.
Doesn’t make sense? I’ll elaborate.
When I saw your hands, that hole hurt. I knew it had to be something with your hands. They’re rough, aren’t they? Callouses. Bruises. Scars. You’re a hard worker. You dig deep so you can scrape by. And those signs of previously broken bones don’t just come from clumsy accidents, now do they? If you were a farmer, or a similar working profession, my stomach wouldn’t hurt. But it did. There was a knot. I bet you didn’t notice. Why would you?
Oh, but I was. It hurt something awful and I knew. I knew. Because when it hurts something awful, it means something awful. So what kind of person has bumps and bruises and hurts? A hunter. Simple.
I thought that was it, but I underestimated the hole.
It grew every time I was near you. Those little run-ins, those little situations that only grew your hate of me. Oh, yes. I knew. You didn’t like me in the slightest. My hole kept growing. Each meeting, it grew an inch or two. And each meeting, I realized something else - like how you hated me.
But that’s not quite true, is it? Because soon after I got the hole, I got the dreams too. Yeah, I lied about that. I’m sorry. But you wouldn’t have liked the answers. But now, I know.
I know why I dreamed you up...or that you were actually there. It wasn’t just a figment I’d produced to help stave off the lonely nights on this here rock in the sea. No, it really was you. How much different from a shade you were.
I’ll try not to go over it too much, but do you know how much it meant that you actually gave a shit about my tattoos? That you asked what they meant. Nevermind that you traced them...I said I wouldn’t go over it that much. But the important part was that you asked. You asked. And then seemed to really care about the answers.
That time I spent explaining to you what each mark meant, I’d never forget. But you have to understand, I didn’t actually think I was telling you about them. I thought I was telling a figment of my imagination who just happened to look as sour-faced as you.
But then I found out. I found out it was you, and I should have listened to my gut when it dropped after I first saw you in my dreams.
That drop was to try and tell me that you were “the one”.
You’ll laugh at that, won’t you? “The one”. What a kind of joke is that? A hunter and a vampire, stuck together like two pieces of a puzzle. It’s not going to fit no matter how hard you try it. Hell, you’ll detest it. Gross, not to be done. Wait, let me guess. You’ll assume you’ll be strung up as some sort of vampire plaything.
No, that’s not what I want.
My gut hurts while writing this.
But it’s not true. I may not know what I want, but your freedom is something I do want. In this not-poetic letter I’ll never send, I promise you on everything I’ve ever done, the last thing I want you do to do is be unhappy. I want you to smile...if you’re capable of it. I want you to be free and do what you want; is it selfish to say I want you to do it with me?
I do. Damn, it sounds so. So. Romantic. It’s completely not me - vampire stereotypes aside. I’m not used to romance anymore, not used to it. I can fake it. I can put on a show, but it only does anything for me when I actually care. And that…
Look at this jumbled mess. I don’t even know what I’m saying.
What I want to say is that I want you to be safe. I want you to live your life free. And I want you to live it as safely as you’ll let yourself. You’re a stubborn ass, so I’m under no suspicion that you probably won’t let yourself live it too safely. But that’s what I want.
And in order to do that, I need to not want you. I’ve got too much baggage, and a slew of family members in mausoleums behind me to explain why it’s bad for you to get tangled up with the likes of me.
But I want you. You don’t seem to be able to believe that - not at the bar anyway. But that’s it. That’s what I want: you. I want everything we’ve done in the dreams to be real. I want to go down to the beach. Have you ask about my tattoos. I want to tell you about everything I’ve seen. I want you to tell me the same.
I want a lot of things that won’t happen.
I should leave you alone, but I can’t. The hole inside me keeps growing. Do you have one too? Maybe it’s the bond of soulmates. I never believed in it; I didn’t pay attention to it. But I wonder now.
I’m going to burn this so no one will ever find it, so I’ll write one last thing. Frankie, Randy, whoever the hell you decide to be, I’m falling in love with you.
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