Page 42 of Chalk Outline
I scan his body from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”
He places the radio on the top rail, lights a cigarette, and brings it near the mask. He pulls it back just enough to take a long drag while still obscuring his face. Thick streams of smoke are exhaled through his nose. Despite the blood staining the bright streaks in his hair, he remains calm.
He brings the radio to his mouth, “I have a cut on my shoulder, nothing serious. I’ll take a shower, suture it in the bathroom, and take a bunch of painkillers.”
Oh, it looks serious to me.
“You might need antibiotics. Show it to me.” It comes out as a demand, and I’m unsure if it is or if I can’t stand the thought of knowing someone needs help whenIcan’t helpthem.
He pauses briefly to gaze at me, placing the cigarette on the top rail.
Instead of removing his mask, he takes off his jacket and tears his shirt in the middle with his pocket knife—the fabric pools at his feet. Black ink covers every inch of his torso, flowing in intricate, mystical patterns and symbols across his sculpted chest, narrow waist, the deeply cut V of his abdomen, and disappearing below the waistband of his pants.
What stands out is a striking moth tattoo on his throat, flanked by thorns on the sides of his neck. The small details of the tattoo are breathtaking.
I didn’t pay much attention to it before.
It’s like watching a sketchbook come to life on a human canvas—a beautiful one with endless scars that mirror its natural beauty.
Sliding my eyes to the right, they narrow when I see the severity of the gush in his shoulder—the flesh is ripped open, distorting his tattoo; some blood is crusted, while some still trickles slowly. “Do you know how to suture it?”
“That’s not my first.”
“Let me guess, it won’t be your last.” I shoot him a fake grin.
“You’re a fast learner.” He winces, dropping his gaze to the space between us. “Do you want to see it when I’m done?” he hesitates, and it’s the first time I hear a hint of vulnerability and longing in his voice.
I nod. “Yes, I’ll wait here.”
“If I scream like a little bitch, I’ll deny it ever happened.” His subtle laugh turns into a hiss. The way he injects humor into serious matters is quite amusing. He turns to leave, revealing a full-back tattoo of a dragon surrounded by black smoke, and my jaw drops.
Wow.
What a masterpiece.
I step away from the railings and let my sore body sink into the soft, enveloping couch. I luxuriate in it for several minutes. The radio rests on my lap as I lean back, memorizing each star in the sky.
Thoughts swirl in my mind about being off the grid, aware that I could die here without knowing my location. Yet, strangely, that notion doesn’t seem so terrible. It feels peaceful.
I’m creating my own tale.
I’ve always loved stories because, as twisted as some can be, they offer me an escape. Still, even here, my independence is restricted. When will everyone around me realize that death is chasing us all and will eventually come knocking at our doors?
I can die in my sleep, and there is nothing they can do about it.
“Can you talk?” Jason’s strained voice comes through the radio. “Distract me, please.” Although he doesn’t say it outright,I can tell that he must be worn out. His body is sore, the painkillers haven’t kicked in yet, and stitching the wound is excruciating to do alone.
“Did you kill the bear?” I ask.
“I couldn’t. He gave methe look, you know.”
“The look?” I lower my voice and pull my eyebrows together.
“Do you know the look someone gives you when they allow you a glimpse into their soul? It flashes in their eyes, and you just can’t hurt them. It’s not the bear’s fault. It’s his territory. It’s survival. Instincts. That’s what it knows. He’s the keeper of the forest. “
“So, you felt sorry for him?”
“Maybe I felt sorry for myself, too. Too much blood on my hands. I can’t kill an innocent creature, no matter how bloody it gets.” A killer with a conscience. It must be hard living with all the faces of those he’s killed racing through his head. “He was saved from traffickers and brought here.”
