BLACK CROSS, part one.

”No,” I said deliberately, looking at all the artwork in the window. It was all beautiful, skillfully done, artistic, pleasant to look at. Every little piece seemed like it was made up by combining little pieces of heaven and hell, like something one had seen in a dream or in a near-death experience. Some were just symbols I couldn’t really understand.
“Come on, you know you want one.” I shot a glance at my way too eager friend, her eyes about ready to pop out of their sockets. I looked back at the art behind the slightly dirty glass. I was intrigued, really. But, obviously, someone didn’t have window washing as their highest priority.
“Maybe some other time,” I told my friend, Claire. She was very eager about this. So was I. When it wasn’t so close and real, and there was a chance I would have to actually go through with it. I wanted a tattoo, I really did. I even knew what I wanted; some kind of symbol of faith and hope. But I didn’t know exactly what it would look like, or where I would place it. It had to be somewhere my mother couldn’t see it, but somewhere that wouldn’t sag too much when I grew old. That left me with limited choices.
“We’ll just have a look,” Claire continued, and before I could stop it, I found myself inside a strange kind of world

I was inside ’Vince’s’. The most infamous tattoo studio in the city. Or the state, even. I really wasn’t that into these things. Neither was Claire, but she had her fair share of artworks hidden all over her body. As did most of my friends. When I gave it some thought, I realized I was probably the only one still unmarked, still with clear skin. Still a blank canvas.

The front room was clean. I have no idea why, but I had always imagined tattoo places slightly filthy, filled with sailors, whores and other profanities. The floor looked like a chessboard, with its black and white squares, there was a red leather sofa on one wall, a table with picture books of the artwork and paintings and drawings on the walls. The paintings and drawings all had the same signature, and they were hauntingly beautiful. The speakers in the corner let out music that sounded like a mix between classical and old-school rock. On the small counter there was a vase with flowers and two candles. Behind the counter I could see a small, narrow hallway. I figured it lead back to where the magic happened. Everything seemed calm, clean, inviting. And just a little bit enchanting. Not enough to be disturbing or scary, but plenty to drag someone in. It was so simple, yet so different from what I had imagined.

“Don’t just stand there, you weirdo,” I heard Claire’s voice say. She was already seated in the red sofa, one of the picture books in her hands.
“You know, I want another one, too. I have been thinking about something like a heart or flower on my ankle. Would that be cheesy?” She looked at me with slightly narrowed eyes.
“No, I suppose not,” I answered. What did I know? I was certainly not the authority on tattoos or their cheesiness. I was paying more attention to a pencil drawing of a demon that hung on the wall opposite from me. The demon.. or creature, seemed so evil, yet so hurt, poor and kindhearted at the same time. How was it possible to draw like that? I could barley draw hearts and stars and those childish things, so how someone could manage to conjure feelings through the strokes of a pencil was beyond me.

“You ladies want something in particular?” The voice was husky and slow, yet somehow alluring. It was deep, hoarse. Lovely. I looked up to see a man by the counter. He looked simple enough, with dark brown hair down to his shoulders, a cigarette between his lips, pale skin, and a black t shirt with some kind of band logo on. In fact, it looked like he did nothing at all to appear extraordinary or special in any way. Yet, he was special. He was pretty! I felt like a schoolgirl, not sure what to say when the quarterback actually spoke to her. It was ridiculous. I didn't even like pretty men. Handsome, sure. But not this kind of artistically pretty.
“Oh, not quite sure,” Claire said. I turned my head to look at her. Why did she always seem so cheerful? Why was she always, always, always able to speak? I was sometimes quite certain it was more a curse than a gift.
“Actually, I am just trying to talk Faith here into finally getting one. She’s been talking about it for ages. But when it comes down to it, she is such a chicken, you know. All words and talk and no action.” Seriously, why did she keep talking? I sort of wanted to slap her on the head, but refrained from doing so. It probably wouldn’t have stopped her, anyway. She was bloody invincible when it came to her annoying chatter. Instead of slapping her, I stared at the man by the counter. He smiled. He looked at me.
“Is that so,” he said, seemingly amused.
“Yes. That is so.” Claire verified. Why did she have to keep talking? The man just looked at me with an amused expression on his face.
“I don’t know. Maybe some other time. I’m not sure,” I said, my voice sounding more uncertain than I had intended it to. The man took another drag of his cigarette, and put it behind the counter. Probably in an ashtray, I thought. Why did I think about such stupid things? But, it was only then I noticed that both his arms were covered with black patterns and figures. It somehow seemed wrong, that someone with a delicate, flawless face like his, should have so many tattoos.
“No, you can’t do anything before you are certain,” he agreed, still with a smile.
“But that is the thing,” Claire interrupted, just as I opened my mouth to say something. “She’ll never be certain! She needs a push! I am here to push!”
“Well,” the man said more serious now, but still looking a bit amused, “if your friend will never be sure, I suppose she’ll just stay pure forever. It’s her choice.” He winked at me.

He winked at me! The tattooed man with the dark hair and mysteriously pale face winked at me! Why on earth did I seem so mesmerized by this fact?

“You won’t do it against her will then?” Claire asked, suspiciously.
“No, certainly not,” he said with a laugh. I noticed that he had a cute laugh. And a strong manly jaw. And I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I was not supposed to think of these things. Seriously, my brain sounded like some bad romance novel describing the beautiful hero of the story. It was wrong on so many levels.
“Let’s go,” I said, and started to get up. The red sofa was suddenly not so inviting anymore. I slapped Claire’s shoulder once, when she made no sign of wanting to move in the near future.
“Okay, okay, coming,” she said happily, and more or less skipped out of her seat and over to the door. What was with the cheerfulness?
“We’ll be back soon,” she promised the man.
“Can’t wait,” he replied. I couldn't help but notice a small hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Once we got outside, the air seemed a bit colder than before we had gone in. I had no idea why this was. Maybe a storm was coming. Maybe I was just going insane.
“He was kinda cute,” I remarked, trying to sound casual about it.
“Duh!” Claire slapped my arm once, all playfully. “That was Vincent Hayes, he’s hot as hell!”
“You know him?” I asked and eyed Claire as we walked down the street.
“No, not personally. But everyone knows about him! He’s like famous! He’s hot! And he does pretty artwork! And he is a know tattoo artist! How bloody cool is that?” She sounded very enthusiastic about all these facts.
“Very,” I agreed dryly. Well. It sorta was. Kinda.

We found Claire’s car, and didn’t really speak more about Vincent as we drove back. We discussed a party we would make the following weekend, if we needed to buy ourselves new clothes or not, and what we wanted to drink. Claire wanted champagne, of course. I decided I’d be boring and stick to a six pack of beer. If nothing else, at least I’d know beforehand how I would react. Champagne was far more unpredictable. Then again, perhaps that was exactly what I needed.
I think Claire’s wish for a heart or flower on her ankle was forgotten by the time we stumbled into the apartment and sat down by the kitchen table. It was not my place, nor was it hers. It was Abe’s. We always ended up at his place, it was like some kind of gathering for everyone. I was never sure why or how it happened, but it just had. He didn’t seem to mind too much, though, so we all sort of just continued coming and going. We had all our parties here. People slept in the guestroom or the living room from time to time. We all even pitched in to stock the fridge or wash up the place once in a while. It was a nice place to be, and between the about ten people that made up the inner circle of our little group, we had some kind of understanding. I could never quite explain it, but I suppose we sort of looked after one another, made sure no one was ever lonely or had to go through too much crap. Mostly, though, we just hung out and had fun. It was safe there, in an absolutely vulgar kind of way. I never wanted it to change. Ever.

“You’re out of milk!” Claire announced the moment we heard Abe come home and kick off his shoes by the entrance door.
“Not my problem,” he called back, and we heard he made his way into the bedroom. Probably for a nap. It didn’t matter. We just made sure to not be too loud, and make any newcomers know Abe was sleeping. The first one to arrive was Julia, a sweet little girl with blonde curls that looked so pretty everyone envied her. She was the youngest of us all, with her nineteen years. She never seemed so very young, though, and she was by far the craziest person I had ever met. But even she managed to keep it quiet when she was told Abe was sleeping. John was the next one to arrive. He just shrugged at us and turned the volume down at his violent video game

Later, when the living room was full, Abe came out from the bedroom, obviously done with his napping.
“Hey babe,” he said as he sat down next to me. John was still shooting and killing his way across the screen, and Graham was telling everyone that he was certain he could do better. Claire, Julia and Amber were all covering their mouths, giggling like crazy. Which left me, and my beer, for Abe to sit down by.
“Hey,” I answered, and handed the beer over to him. “Hard day at work?”
He took a sip and smiled. “Not really. Just didn’t sleep too well last night.” A wry kind of expression crept onto his face. “I was so excited to see what kind of tattoo you’d get, you know.” As if. He knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t go through with it.
“Right,” I muttered. “I got a Bengal tiger across all of my back. Wanna see?” I flashed him a grin.
“Not now. But feel free to undress for me later. Deal?”