Bad Bad Girl

It wasn’t that she didn’t like people, but most of the time, lately, she preferred them from a distance. In general, she found most men and women too inherently selfish, and without any practical sense of sympathy. Sure, most folks would say a kind word when they saw hurt, encourage a person when they were struggling, but that always seemed to her like some false exhibition of a societal duty. It was as though they only said things in public because they felt like they were supposed to. Like how people who were clearly angry and impatient would still say, “Hi, how are you?” when entering the supply room. They didn’t care how Rebecca answered or how her day was going. That was just what they were supposed to say, regardless of how anyone felt.

Frankly, it was exhausting for her. Rebecca could handle one or two people a week who were snapping and prickly without much of an effect on her, but when the string of irritation continued without a break for days on end, enough was enough.

Back in her apartment, stretched out upon her bed and hiding under her arm, Rebecca decided that she had reached her crossroads. She didn’t actually want to hurt herself, but she needed a change. She needed something to distract her from how terrible life could be sometimes. This darkness, this funk, this pathetic life she had recently created had to come to a stop. Enough was enough.

She lifted her arm and looked at the small tattoo on her wrist; flowers. There was no real pattern or theme to the small flowers, but her collection made her feel unique and creative. She remembered the day she got the tattoo. She remembered how carefree she had been, how willing she’d been to just live life without thinking about tomorrow. The Rebecca who got this tattoo would never lock herself away in a storage room, or lie in bed on a Friday night, thinking about her demise. She used to be take-charge, organized, focused and happy. She smiled at the memories, missing the woman she’d lost in the divorce. For the first time in a very long time, she felt good looking over the art on her wrist, and an idea hit her.

“You’re insane,” Neely announced into her phone. “Like, not even a little crazy in that fun and entertaining way people enjoy at parties,” she explained. “I’m talking, needs to be under observation because you are certifiably wacko. That’s the level of insanity you are describing.”

Rebecca listened to her friend in silence, with a small smile blossoming in the corners of her mouth. Nothing made an idea seem better than Neely’s disapproval.

“I mean,” Neely huffed, not attempting to hide her irritation at all, “do you have any idea how much that would cost? Or how long it would take? I mean, really?”

“Yes,” Rebecca answered simply, then returned to silence.

“But,” Neely began, then snorted her frustration. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am,” Rebecca replied.

“A back piece?” her friend blurted. “Like, a full back tattoo? Only disturbed people want to be hurt that bad, and pay that much for something they will never be able to see with their own eyes.”

Rebecca laughed at the irony. “This coming from someone who allows her husband to spank her on a regular basis? Are you actually going to bring up the word ‘hurt’?” She still couldn’t believe her friend practiced Domestic Discipline. Actually, she couldn’t believe many of her friends lived the lifestyle. She tried her best not to think about the fact that her girlfriends willingly allowed their men to discipline them. It was like some weird, 1950s Twilight Zone episode, hearing them all talk. But regardless, it was their choice, and none of Rebecca’s business what Neely and her husband, Caine, did behind closed doors.

Neely snorted. “Point. But still, you have got to be insane to get an entire back piece. Your entire back! It’s going to hurt a hell of a lot more than a spanking.”

Rebecca remained silent.

“How about your ankle?” her friend suggested. “Or maybe something on your calf?”

“My calf?” Rebecca answered, imagining the kind of tattoo that would fit on her skinny leg.

“I’m just saying!” Neely replied, as though the statement was a complete sentence.

“One of the best tattoo artists in the country lives in Seattle,” Rebecca replied. “You were the one to say that when you gave me his name, remember? You said he was a friend of Caine’s.”

“Yes, but that was when I thought you were just going to get a small butterfly on your ankle or something. Something small to mark the end of your marriage. I didn’t think you were going to color half your body! And besides, we live in Tacoma,” Neely responded, somehow thinking that stating the obvious would change her friend’s mind. “I suggested him when I thought we could plan a fun girl’s day, and you could go in for a simple, hour-long session. Maybe you should wait and try to find someone local.”