Page 3 of The Spirit Of My Savage
I paused in the middle of the room, throat tight. “He didn’t leave me on purpose.”
Rome stared at me for a second, like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. He just picked up his phone.
I rolled my eyes and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. That’s when I saw the mirror fogged up and my favorite Champagne Toast candle flickering. Written clear asday in the steam on the mirror were the words,“I’m still here, Sky Pie.”
My breath caught. Only King ever called me that nickname, damn near from the day we met. The steam still drifted off the mirror, letters dripping like tears. The first time I blinked, I told myself I imagined it. The second time, the words slid down the glass just enough for me to know they were real.
“Rome?” I called, pulse going crazy.
No answer. All I heard was the TV from the bedroom with a sportscaster yelling over a replay. I wiped the mirror with my palm. The words vanished, but the chill in the air didn’t move. The candle by the sink burned steadily, even though I hadn’t lit it in weeks. I backed out slowly, my heart in my throat. Rome glanced up as I stepped into the doorway.
“You good?” he asked, half-focused on his phone.
“Yeah… just... thought I saw somethin’.”
He squinted at me. “You sure you ain’t takin’ them anxiety pills again?”
“No.” I rolled my eyes as I walked over to the dresser to remove my jewelry. “You know they was fuckin’ with me.”
He let out a low laugh that wasn’t funny. “You be stressin’ yourself out for no reason.” He stubbed out the blunt and stood, stretching. His back muscles flexed, tattoos crawling down his arms like scripture. He came up behind me, slipped a hand around my waist, and kissed the side of my neck. “You need to relax,” he murmured.
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.” He slid his hand higher, the tone in his voice switching from soft to warning. “You act like I don’t notice when you shut down.”
“I just got a lot on my mind,” I whispered, turning to face him.
He tilted my chin up, eyes sharp. “You still dreamin’ and missin’ this nigga?” I guess my silence was answer enough. He sucked his teeth and walked off. “After all I do for your ass…”
The way he moved when he was irritated was slow and heavy with his shoulders all tense. It used to scare me. Not because he’d ever hit me, but because I knew he could. And sometimes that was enough.
Rome had secrets. I knew it. Late-night phone calls. Unmarked cars pulling up outside. Trips that started as “a quick run” and ended three days later with him smelling like new money and strange perfume. I told myself not to ask. I told myself I owed him that. Every time I thought about walking away, I remembered those quiet nights when he held me while I cried myself to sleep, as he whispered, “I got you, shorty. You safe with me.”
Maybe that’s why I stayed. Maybe that’s why I convinced myself love could grow out of survival. But after staring at that bathroom mirror, at the candle still burning, I knew something had shifted.
I slipped into bed beside him, trying not to shake. He was already half-asleep, one arm draped over his stomach, gun glinting on the nightstand. I lay on my back, eyes on the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came.
“Bitch, you sure you wanna do this?”
My friend, Justine, sat across from me, legs crossed in her Nike tech set, a cup of Starbucks in one hand and a thousand opinions in the other. She looked too damn cute to be talking shit, but that’s just how she was. Me, her, Unique, Sheena, and Asia had all been friends since we were in high school. Justine was nosy, loyal, and always trying to talk me out of bad decisions.
I rolled my eyes as I slid my cardigan sleeve up. “We came all the way down here, didn’t we?”
“It’s just weird,” she said. “You wanna get King’s name re-tatted right before Halloween? Like… why now?”
The shop smelled like antiseptic and weed. A fog machine in the corner puffed out fake smoke for the holiday theme, and somebody had hung a skeleton from the ceiling fan with a fitted cap on its head. There were black and orange flyers taped to thewalls for a “Freaky Friday Flash Sale.” I wasn’t here for none of that. I just wanted my piece touched up.
I looked down at the faded ink on my wrist. “It’s startin’ to disappear,” I murmured.
She sucked her teeth. “Girl, the man is dead. It’s been three years. He already disappeared.”
I didn’t respond. The tattoo artist walked up and motioned for me to come back, so I followed him to the chair. I laid my wrist on the table, heart thudding way harder than it should’ve.
“You want it exactly the same?” he asked, already pulling his gloves on.
“Yeah. Don’t change the font or nothing. Just darken it.”
“Bet.”
