Page 98 of The Tattoo Artist

Her head softly resting onto the side of my chest, her hands holding onto my waist tightly as if she fears that I would ever leave her again. She should know I wouldn’t. I can’t. I don’t have it in me. Three weeks without felt like three years. Her soft breaths rhythmically rising and falling as we sat together on the sofa, my fingers brushing through her soaked curls since she had taken a shower.

The crackling fire in the fireplace added a sense of warmth and comfort to the room, but it paled in comparison to the warmth I felt in my heart as she held me tightly.

I couldn’t bear the thought of failing her once more.

I had made mistakes in the past, and those mistakes had caused us both so much pain. But now, as she clung to me, seeking solace and safety in my arms, I vowed to be different.

My eyes close, and the memories of the crash echo in my mind.

I gently slide her off my chest and carefully place a pillow under her head. With tender affection, I drape a soft blanket over her sleeping form, making sure she stays warm and comfortable.

Grabbing my car keys, I head out of the cabin. The cold night air bites at my skin, unlocking the car-the boot automatically opens and I grab the duffle bag in the far end. I unzip it, sliding out my black hoodie which I put on. I walk to the driver’s side, opening the door and starting the car. I didn’t waste time reversing out and driving to my destination.

My hands tighten around the steering wheel, I have to calm myself down. Or do I?

Arriving at my destination, I step out of the car.

I throw the hood over my head, staring up at the house as I sharpen my knife.

She wouldn’t want this.

She wouldn’t want them dead.

But I want them dead.

I wonder what colour their blood is. What type of red they will bleed. Crimson. Velvet.

But I know her, she cares to much about people.

So, I chuck the knife back into the car, and walk towards her balcony stairs. I head up them, pushing her already open balcony door.

I look around her trashed room, her mother must have gone crazy. I’ll show them crazy. I don’t know what went through their head thinking they can touch my Alex with the idea of keeping their hands attached to their bodies.

The soft moonlight filters through the silky white curtains, casting a gentle glow on the familiar surroundings.

I know what I must do, and I won’t let anyone hurt her again.

As I exit into the hallway, I tread quietly, not wanting to wake anyone else in the house. Aunt Coraline no longer here. My heart pounds in my chest as I head towards her parents’ bedroom.

Pushing the door open with a quiet creak, I find them both fast asleep, oblivious to the pain they’ve caused their own child.

Taking a moment to collect my thoughts, I stand at the threshold, watching them for a brief moment. They were both fast asleep, how could they sleep after doing that to their own child? My arms folded across my chest; how do I want to do this?

I’m acting as if I don’t have an entire plan, fuck the plan. I walk over to her father’s side of the bed and pull the sheets out before yanking him out of bed by the fabric of his shirt. His eyes shoot open, and he groans the moment I slam him roughly against the wall, “what on earth!” he screams out. “Who the fuck are you?”

I smirk, pushing my hood down as his eyes met mine.

I watch them widen.

Fear flowing through, just like the tears in his wife’s eyes as she screams for me to let go of him.

“Andrew!” Her mother cries out, panic in her voice. But I won’t let her interfere. “Stop it! Stop it, please!” Catalina begs.

“Shut the fuck up!” I point at her. “You think you can hurt my wife and get away with it?”

“You fucking son of a bitch! Let go off me!”

“Hit me. Fucking hit me!” I shout at him; his jaw tenses and he shook his head. “Why not! Fucking hit me like a man! Like you hit my wife!”

---