Page 42 of Hidden Echoes

Not without something numbing me first—alcohol, drugs, anything to dull the weight of someone else’s hands on me.

Anything to make it feel like it wasn’t really happening. Like I wasn’t really there.

I'm not saying I have a problem with people touching me—I'm a tattoo artist, after all.

It's part of the job. But the thought of getting close to someone, of being truly intimate? It makes my head feel like it’s going to split open.

It’s like my body knows what I’m supposed to feel, but everything’s numb, and the weight of it all crushes me.

I’m not broken, though. I can still fuck people, lose myself in the chaos, when my mind’s too shattered to hold on to anything real.

But when the high wears off, when the haze lifts, all I’m left with is a hollow space where the memories should be.

Fuck, I must be more fucked up than I thought.

Panic crawls up my spine as I see Mia shift in her chair. Shit. She heard that. She’s going to murder this girl.

Shit, shit, shit.

But then—

“Zane, do you have any more yellow pencils?” she asks, her voice its usual soft, sweet tone.

I exhale in relief. Maybe she didn’t hear.

“Yeah, there’s another box in the closet,” I tell her. She nods and wanders off, completely unbothered.

The woman leans forward. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m not interested,” I say flatly, focusing on the tattoo. It’s a simple design—angel wings on the back of her neck. I’m almost done.

Could I meet her later? Sure. But the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Something about it feels wrong. Like I’d be betraying Mia’s trust. Like I’d be betraying myself.

And that’s… new.

I’ve never been picky. As long as I was drunk or high, any hole was a hole.

Maybe I just wanted to prove my mother didn’t break me completely. That I’m still whole. Still human. But here I am—unable to fuck someone unless I’m drowning in something strong enough to blur the edges of reality. And when I do? It’s never really me. Just a body, just a reflex. No memory, no meaning.

Like I was never even there.

I finish the tattoo, clean up my station, and she hands me the payment. Then she gives me that look—hopeful, expectant. Like I’m some kind of exotic experience.

An adventure for her trip to LA.

I don’t care what people think of me. But something about that look makes me sick.

She sighs dramatically, hoping it’ll change my mind. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“We could have some fun.”

I meet her eyes, my voice steady. “I’ll pass.”

She rolls her eyes and walks out.

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