Playing (Inked Hearts 2)

I'm not artsy, really. I got into tattooing more for the thrill of holding a gun than the thrill of my art on someone's body.

But I take pride in my shit.

I work hard to hone my skills. Figure drawing classes. Sketches. Jumping on trends Ryan abhors. He's still s

coffing at watercolor tattoos.

I flip my sketchbook open to the latest page. Pick up my pen. Draw Am I A Sucker or Am I Doing the Right Thing? in big bold letters.

It's right next to my mockup for Iris's tattoo.

She wanted simple text, but I wanted to try adorning it. There's one with hearts. One with flowers. One dripping blood.

She loved them all.

But, still, she wanted simple text.

She thought she was breaking my heart rejecting my mock-ups.

But I don't let my ego get wrapped up in this shit.

There's only one thing that breaks my heart.

And I really am fucking done.

I move into the shower. Strip. Run the faucet hot.

The water washes away the day.

But that voice is still echoing around my head.

Fuck, I'm never getting close to an addict again.

To anyone.

Chapter Eight

Iris

Streaming a yoga video washes away the stress of studying psychological statistics, but it does nothing to distract me from my problems.

It's a recovery focused yoga series.

It's supposed to help.

And it does.

But it forces me to confront all the ugly parts of my past. The nearly three years of lying to my coworkers and friends, of running away from my problems, of escaping every intense feeling for a calm, easy opiate high.

I've been clean almost three months now.

It's good. Better. But it's scary being a blank slate. I'm tired of being Iris, the recovering addict. There's more to me. I know there is.

Which is why I'm reading this horrifyingly cheesy pop-psychology self-help checklist.

Finding Yourself After Falling: An Addicts Guide to Life After Recovery.

I know. It's ridiculous.