“Let me grab a shirt and I’ll walk you out,” he said gruffly. I nodded wiping my cheeks with the sleeves of my sweater. He turned around to walk into his bedroom and that’s when I saw the ink taking up his entire back
The shocked gasp that escaped my mouth caused him to look over his shoulder at me. The instant he saw my face realization set into his features and he closed his eyes.
“Turn around,” I demanded, softly.
He sighed, his shoulders went lax, and he dropped his head. I took a step closer and stared in awe at the beautiful artwork covering his skin. There were beautiful clouds drawn across his shoulder blades all of them shaded in hues of gray and blue, almost matching his eyes. Through the clouds there are rays that shoot down the center of his back like rays of an eternal light. The year two thousand five looks as though the rays illuminate the numbers. My eyes travel down to the center of his back where there is the letter A written in a familiar handwriting. My first thought is that my eyes are playing tricks on me but when I take a closer look there is no denying it. The A inked onto his skin is a replica of the A I scribe every time I sign my name. Just when I thought there were no tears left to cry, I feel my eyes fill with water as realization dawns on me. I push back the tears and force myself to continue my perusal of the intricate tattoo he has forever etched into his flesh. There are flames that begin just beneath the waistband of his sweat pants and travel wildly, vibrant oranges, yellows and reds, all depicting an inferno as they make their way to the A. The year two thousand ten scribed between the flames of hell. I reach out and trace the A with my index finger, feeling him flinch at my touch. He gathers his bearings and remains completely still as my fingertip continues to trace the A. My eyes fixate on the two years, two thousand five was the year it all began for us, and two thousand ten was the year it ended.
He must’ve been reading my mind because he turned around shielding his tattoo from me as he gazed in to my eyes.
“My heaven and my hell,” he whispered roughly, explaining the sentiment behind the ink that forever marks his skin. I stare at him for a moment, stripped of any words. What do you say to that? To the man telling you to forget he exists only to discover he takes a piece of you with him wherever he goes.
You say nothing because nothing you could ever say would be enough.