Enzo (Jinx Tattoos 1)

Who, when Thy reign begins,

Wipest away the Soul’s distress,

And memory of her sins.

“Hymn to Physical Pain” Rudyard Kipling

Chapter Three

Enzo

PAST

He sat in the basin, shivering and hungry. His stomach cramped in protest and the smell of urine lingered in the air. He’d relieved himself in the drain earlier. His chapped lips ached, and his throat was scratchy and dried. He was afraid to turn on the shower for fear of angering his mother. She’d locked him here. He wasn’t sure what he’d done, but if he could be a good boy long enough, she would let him out. He rocked back and forth, humming to distract himself from the darkness. The lights didn’t work anymore. He’d tried to flip the switch over and over again, once the sun went down. I can be a good boy. I can.

PRESENT

Jerked from sleep, he found himself suddenly awake. His eyes popped open. Blinking rapidly, he struggled to orient himself. Hot, sticky, and flustered, he threw off his sheets. I’m at home. I’m an adult, not a child. None of that is current. Breathing heavily, he eased into a sitting position, and fought to keep the bile from creeping up his throat. After being trapped in the cramped space for days, the bathroom had become his idea of hell. The toilet had been a clunking, rickety ancient device that only worked half the time. Once it clogged up, he hadn’t known what else to do but go in the bathtub.

He’d been five. Anger seared his veins like poison. Regardless of all that his mother had done, he always thought the treatment was his fault. That he had caused it by behaving naughtily. By the time his mother had come down from her high, enough to remember he existed, he was severely dehydrated, starving, and less than a foot away from a shit and piss filled drain.

The experience created an aversion to small bathrooms. He hadn’t had a dream like this in years, but it made sense with her death and his birthday having passed a few weeks ago. Despite the sweat, the last thing he wanted to do right now was take a shower. He made his way into one of the spare rooms he used as a studio. He hated the darkness that lived inside of him; the horrible memories that refused to leave him no matter how much time passed.

He grabbed a pencil and began to sketch. If he could purge himself, he would. He would expel all the things that stripped him down, taken away his choices and broken parts of him forever. The scratch of the feather light etchings was a focal point for him to cling to. He watched as a face too similar to his own for comfort to shake began to take form. The figure’s face was distorted. Its mouth wide open, as it screamed bloody murder, like it had just emerged from the womb fully grown.

Setting the pencil aside, he grabbed a palette and dumped a generous dollop of black onto the wood. As he mixed the paint with his brush, he envisioned the flow. Satisfied with the consistency of his paint, he went back in. The rhythmic brush strokes smoothed his ruffled feathers. The dream remained in the forefront of his mind, but he controlled it now, not the other way around.

Blackness came from his mouth, crossing the blank space. He paused to study the image and went back in with greys and white, adding wraiths and ghosts.

Each ghoul represented a memory he wished he could bury. He’d gone on to be successful, yet still he felt trapped behind a thick pane of glass, watching the world go on around him. He’d done the counseling thing—his parents had insisted on it. It stopped the dreams and lowered his walls enough to let those closest to him in.

He took a deep breath and set down his brush. This was how he got it out. Spent, he carried his brushes to the sink and washed them out. If only we could wash away the ugliness in our lives so easily. He bowed his head, clutching the edge of the sink.

I need a distraction. Desperate to remove the images plaguing him, he set his brushes to dry, walked over to his phone, and scrolled through the names. Tracee popped into his mind. She’d treat him like a king and bent over backward to please him. He needed that now, to feel like he mattered, and wash out everything but pleasu

re. Anything to take away this feeling of helplessness and sadness.

“Enzo?” she whispered.

“I had so much fun with you the other day. I figured you could come by, and we could repeat the process.”

“Sure,” she said.

“How fast can you get here?”

“Thirty minutes,” she replied breathlessly.

“I’ll be waiting.” He hung up, thinking about all the ways he would give her pleasure. He couldn’t connect on an intimate level, but he could damn sure satisfy a woman. You didn’t break me completely, Mother. He hurried to the shower, quickly scrubbing down to erase the stain of the past. Hopping out, he toweled off, and slipped on a pair of black boxer briefs, jeans, and a T-shirt.

He paused to look at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were empty. I thought you weren’t going to do this anymore. You say want more because your life feels meaningless, but the first thing you do is run back to your bullshit ways. Silencing the voice of reason berating him, he walked out to the couch to wait for his fix.

The doorbell rang, and he rose, ignoring the inner protests telling him to stop. He opened the door and leaned against the frame.

Tracee was dressed to impress in a tiny blue jean skirt, high heeled black boots, and a tight, black, long-sleeved T-shirt. Her nipples were hard as they strained against her shirt.

He licked his lips. “Looking good, Trace.”

She smiled up at him. “Oh, this? It’s just a little something I threw on.”