Loved With Color

1

Shaynah Gilmore

Looking around my work station with pride, I can’t believe just how far I’ve come in the last five years. My fabulous former stripper mother turned to men and alcohol instead of you know, mothering me. So many dudes rolled in and out of our crappy trailer just outside Savannah, Georgia. It was freaking awful. I knew then and there what I didn’t want out of life. I am sure my mama tried as hard as she could, but I just didn’t see it. I have no idea who my dad is. My mom said it was just a rich businessman patron she had at Diamond Girlz, the sleazy club she worked at in those days. Her most recent club was Pussy Galore out by the airport. She worked the day shift there. That’s when you know it’s time to hang up your g-string and your Catholic school girl costume or something like that. Personally, I think she should have quit a long fucking time ago, but whatever. I’m salty and I can’t help it.

In the last two years, she has found God as well as gotten married. She lives in Boca Raton with her new husband and a Golden Retriever named Daisy. Her husband, Scott, is a great guy and I guess everyone deserves a second chance at happiness. She has tried to make amends with me several times and I am pretty sure that I should forgive her, but I just can’t. Not yet. It’s still too raw. I really think I am entitled to be petty about this. For so long, I fended for myself. I learned how to do everything way too young. Cooking, cleaning, shopping; I did it all.

I lied about my age when I was thirteen to get a job at a mom and pop grocery store. It was within walking distance. I didn’t want to have to rely on anyone to help me get there. I made just enough money to keep the electricity on and the monthly rent for the space our trailer was parked. Thank God my mom owned that trailer or I would have been shit out of luck. I am not proud of the fact that I stole essentials like laundry soap, body wash, tampons, and ramen noodles from my job. That couple trusted me, but I kept track of everything I stole.

With my last paycheck, I tried to pay back the $938 worth of stuff I stole over the five years I worked there, but they wouldn’t let me. I only stole cheap stuff, not that it makes it any better, but still they refused to take the money. My boss said she knew what I was doing all along and let it go. Mrs. Greble knew my mom. Knew what she was like. Knew that I was neglected, unloved. I cried that day because I thought I was really good at hiding my disastrous home life. Turns out, I wasn’t. Who else knew what was going on? Why did no one help me? These questions are moot now, but I’d have been interested in knowing back when it was happening.

Two years ago, I graduated from high school and immediately set out to be a tattoo artist. My friend Felicity gave me a shot doing what I love and I am forever grateful to her. I have been trying to show my worth, but it’s hard since I don’t really know my worth.

Are you surprised that I don’t think I am worth a grain of salt? I am getting better, I promise, but again it’s hard.

“Shaynah, can you man the phones for a bit? I have a doctor’s appointment,” Felicity says coming into my station. Her husband, Parker, is standing by her side trying not to roll his eyes.

“Sure thing, girl,” I say, laughing. We have had a problem keeping receptionists ever since Felicity got pregnant. Her hormones are all over the place and all of the girls have rubbed her the wrong way. I watch out the front window of the shop as Parker opens the passenger door for his wife and helps her in. I want that. I want to mean something to someone.

Sighing forlornly, I grab my Kindle from my bag and sit at the front desk. The phone rings a few times and I make two consultation appointments for Star, one of our tattoo artists. Give that girl a tattoo gun and she can make magic happen. I get back to my book. I am so engrossed in the amazing sex scene written by my favorite author, Elisa Leigh, that I don’t hear anyone come in the door. There’s even a bell. A throat clears above me, scaring the shit of me. My hand flies to my chest.

“You scared the bejesus outta me,” I cry.