Page 3 of Body and Soul

I shook my head slowly and pushed away the beer I’d only sipped a little from. It’d long ago gotten too warm to be any good. “I’m bored.”

Ketchup cackled and tipped his head back, looking at me upside down. “Drugs, dancing, and booze not enough sin for you, missionary boy?”

“You’re probably coming down. It’s been like five hours.” The charms on Cherry’s phone jingled as she pulled it out to check the time. “You want another?”

I frowned. Why would I want that? The X was fine, but it felt unreal, destined to wear off like the last one. I needed something else, something more, something… I didn’t know, but ecstasy wasn’t it, and neither was this club.

“I can get you some crystal if you want,” Ketchup offered.

“Gross. You know what that shit does to your teeth?” Cherry dug her heel in between his legs, making him groan.

I turned away, the familiar sting of being a third wheel biting deeper than usual. When Cherry and Ketchup had invited me out for my twenty-fourth birthday, I’d leaped at the chance to escape the studio’s relentless grind. After a month of working late nights, I was craving a break. Yet here I was—wishing Icould blend into the shadows, where I wouldn’t have to watch them lose themselves in each other.

Two years ago, I never saw myself working as an apprentice tattoo artist in Columbus. Back then, I’d been so fucking brainwashed I couldn’t think straight. Living in a cult would do that to anyone.

I hadn’t meant to join a cult. Nobody ever did. You’d be surprised how much a desperate seventeen-year-old would trade for answers and a warm bed.

Five years of that had been enough for me. It wasn’t easy, but I got out and I’d be forever grateful to Cherry for taking a chance on me and giving me a job at her tattoo studio.

But maybe the whole club scene wasn’t for me.

I shoved my chair back from the table.

“Where are you going?” Ketchup asked as he crawled into Cherry’s lap.

“Bathroom,” I muttered and wandered away.

The bathrooms were tucked down a short hallway. Drunk people sat against the walls with their heads in their hands while their friends fussed over them. There, the music was quieter, a dull thud in the side of my neck. For the first time all night, I could almost think.

A line of women stood outside the ladies’ room, half of them in different versions of the same outfit. The other half had their phones out, typing out texts or taking selfies with their lips pursed like they’d been pre-programmed to do it.

I passed them by, sliding into the men’s room. The single stall was occupied, and the urinals were filthy, but I wasn’t there to piss. I went to the line of sinks where used paper towels were scattered all over the faux marble and ran my hand under the sensor. The faucet spat a trickle of lukewarm water that died too fast. I activated the sensor again, this time quickly grabbing a brown paper towel from the dispenser to slide under it. I ran thedamp towel over the back of my neck and over my cheeks while staring at my reflection.

Even after two years, I still wasn’t used to all the mirrors. They were everywhere. I’d never realized how common my reflection was until I joined the Children of the Light. There, mirrors were seen as symbols of earthly vanity and sin. Like so many things, the banning of mirrors had made sense back then. It’d seemed so harmless. My reflection was such a tiny thing to give up for a chance to become one of God’s chosen few.

But that was how it started. One day, it was mirrors. The next, it was my name, my blood, my life. For a brief period, Elias Baker didn’t even exist. Sometimes, it felt like I still didn’t.

I rolled up my sleeves and let the lukewarm water run over my wrists, droplets dancing over the semi-colon tattoo. Cliché, perhaps, but it was my secret; no one needed to understand. Better than the memory of my first tattoo—an upside-down smiley face above my knee, inked in a haze of rebellion and desperation. That small act of defiance had sparked something in me. Nothing compared to the raw ecstasy of a tattoo needle kissing my skin, a sensation I sought to replicate in all the wrong ways.

I stared at my reflection a moment longer before my gaze dropped to my abdomen. Slowly, I lifted the hem of my shirt, revealing the mark I tried so hard to forget. There, just above the waistband of my jeans, was the brand.

It was an ugly thing, all harsh lines and crude edges, the scars raised and glossy. The shape was meant to resemble a shepherd's staff crossed with a sword—the symbolic emblem of the Children of the Light. They held me down, my screams echoing in the RV as the red-hot metal seared my flesh. I was one of them now, they said. Chosen. Purified by pain and fire.

I swallowed hard against the bile rising in my throat and yanked my shirt back down.

Two years later, it still haunted me.

I braced my hands on the edges of the sink, leaning in close to the mirror. My eyes looked hollow and haunted, reflecting the fluorescent lights in an eerie glow.

Why hadn't I gotten that fucking brand covered up yet? It'd been two years since I escaped the cult, but that mark was still there, taunting me every time I looked in a mirror. Like it was waiting for the day I'd come crawling back, broken and defeated. But I wouldn't give them the satisfaction. I was never going back to that hellhole. I'd rather die.

I traced my fingers over the ridged scar tissue, feeling the rage simmering in my gut. I wanted to burn it off with a blowtorch, or carve it out with a razor. Anything to erase their claim on me.

Realistically, the only way to truly reclaim that patch of skin was with a tattoo. To transform it into something of my own choosing, my own design. To finally purge the last vestiges of the Children of the Light from my flesh.

So why hadn't I done it? I'd been tattooing for over a year now. I was more than capable. But every time I thought about putting needle to skin, my mind went blank. I couldn't envision what I wanted there.

The bathroom door creaked open, and I quickly turned on the faucet again, pretending to wash my hands. A burly man in a leather vest shouldered past me to the urinals. I kept my eyes down, focusing on the swirling water.

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