Ink and Time (standard:drama, 4675 words)
Author: servetheser	Added: Nov 04 2005	Views/Reads: 3131/2175	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Marcus and Brandon were the best of friends in highschool,now one year into college, Brandon starts to become depressed and sucicidal. Marcus is easily classified as far from sainthood. When it appears that Brandon is in trouble he comes to see his frien

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discovered something that shocked her.  Scars, they covered his arms 
wherever his shirt was.  Carefully she ran her finger down each one.  
She found composure in this and stopped her trembling.  She started to 
lean down to kiss one of the larger ones when she heard the clumsy 
pounding of her intoxicated friends charging down the stairwell. 
Without explanation Charles pulled Bradley down the stairs and on top 
of Brandon, screaming “Help him!” Slowly catching up with reality 
Bradley took over, shouting commands to his friends.  Bradley preformed 
CPR for almost thirty minutes refusing to give up on his friend, until 
for some reason Brandon woke up crying and looking Bradley dead in the 
eyes.  Though Bradley never liked to speak of it, the look Brandon 
first gave him haunted him for weeks.  It wasn't something that he 
found himself able to describe. When Kittie had first arrived in 
Starkville, she found herself calling up old acquaintances from days 
she wished she could forget. This is how she first met Brandon.  She 
first eyed him at one of Brad's parties.  He was sitting in the corner 
on a disgusting chair that smelled of Jager and vomit.  He had a 
calmness that didn't seem to fit his surroundings. It was Brandon's 
very existence that grabbed Kittie's attention. It was almost as it if 
he were seeing things in the atmosphere that others were blind to. He 
studied interaction with people as if communication and socializing 
were foreign to him. That was until he had a few drinks in him, of 
course. He was obviously a tortured individual, angry at something, 
maybe just himself.  He had a tattoo on his back, a smiley face, with 
X's for eyes. Like the ones you see on the T-shirts of Nirvana kids; 
the ones who spend their lives in Cobain apparel, spending hours upon 
hours worshiping the dead poet, ironically becoming the very things the 
once great musician hated. That first night at Pat's, Brandon was the 
most hilarious, drunken, smart-ass she had ever met.  For some reason 
everything he said was golden, at least she thought so.   It was all in 
his eyes, brown and innocent, yet every look had an uncanny mix of 
agony and love for Kittie.  She loved his tragic glances. For some 
reason a world of love can be displayed in a half a moment if people 
take the time to look for it.  She felt this love and for those moments 
she didn't feel like trash. Kittie sat in her room staring at a broken 
mirror wishing someone would save her.  She always felt that way these 
days.  Only a few months earlier she had been happy, her life was 
perfect.  She had her own apartment in Tampa, Florida, a plum job 
answering a telephone at an office, and a long time boyfriend she lived 
with, and loved more and more everyday. Somehow over the course of 
three emotionally draining months she had diminished to feeling totally 
helpless. “It's just not working anymore,” that's what Martin had said. 
 They both knew it was bullshit.  But, because of her love, or maybe it 
was simply out of the spite brought on by his betrayal; she accepted 
this excuse and let him go. In truth Kittie had felt the breakdown 
coming for months now.  She had dropped out of college and moved in 
with Martin, thinking that all they needed was each other.  Only she 
was blinded by her own affection to find all Martin needed was a soft 
body to love, not a soul mate. She felt used and dried up like old 
sponge.  Worn out and tossed to the side, she was forced to move home 
and once again face the town where she had grown up, Starkville, 
Mississippi.  She would spend her days bouncing from one parent's house 
to the other, feeling once again like a possession they fought over, 
rather than a daughter. Looking in her freshly broken mirror Kittie now 
hated herself, she hated her face, her hair, and her body. She hated 
her tattoos. Kittie had been under the needle nine times, it being what 
she called, “One of the most exhilarating experiences, even better than 
sex!” Before, Kittie had always loved these beautifully colored scars 
carefully placed on her person; each one had a story or some meaning 
behind it.  (But now the only feelings of the past she felt were pain 
and betrayal.)  The random symbols were faded now, lacking luster, just 
as she did. They became nothing more than what they were; scars, deep 
and cutting straight to her heart.  Only unlike most people, Kittie 
wore her emotions for all to see. The morning after Brandon's incident, 
Kittie sat in her black SUV, it was a monstrous sized Chevy, with a 
custom plate reading “Meow2U.”   With bloodshot eyes she looked down on 
a half-empty bottle of tequila, an old Mexican friend who now taunted 
her with shame.  She felt like a murderer, if she hadn't killed 
Brandon, maybe it was just a piece of herself. “Why?  Why did he have 
to keep saying my name while he was laying there?” Kittie thought. “How 
could he ever love someone who's all but robbed everything from him in 
such a short time.” Walking into the seemingly foreign walls of the 
apartment Kittie now called home, she found herself staring in her 
mirror.  Gazing into a sleep deprived complexion she let out a single 
tear.  It was the most painful yet meaningful moment she had 
experienced in months.  For some reason she knew she had almost killed 
something she loved. One tear from a heart finally broken. That was all 
it took to seal the fate of her soul-bearing mirror. Kittie woke from 
an unpleasant rest to the sound of her phone.  It was Marcus.  Marcus 
was an old friend of Brandon, who now went to school in Jackson.  No 
two friends were ever closer.  Both were naturally quiet people with a 
love for the bizarre. Together they had spent their school days 
silently criticizing the seemingly, feudal social life of high school.  
They were losers then, but from that time they pulled a deep since of 
responsibility and respect for each other; in other words they were 
friends. “Ok Kitty, tell me what the hell happened?” asked Marcus, 
through a static telephone. With a numbing sense of calmness Kitty 
bared her soul to the faceless, angry voice on the other end of the 
phone, and recapped the events of the past night. “So basically you 
were just pouring drinks down Brandon's throat to entertain yourself.” 
Kittie started crying, pleading with Marcus to be reasonable.  “Please 
I'm sorry, I don't need you trying to make me feel any worse about the 
whole thing.” “I don't need you making things worse for him!” Marcus 
shouted.  “There are things about the guy that you don't know.  Did you 
ever notice the cuts on his arms?  I'll give you a hint those aren't 
any paper cuts.  He's been doing it for a long time.  And, he's been 
saying things Kittie; things I just don't know how to interpret. Scary 
things.  When he told me about last night, I told him I was coming to 
see him, all he said was, “If I'm still here man.”  I've known the guy 
for ten years, he's never blown be off before, look let me tell you 
something, he cares about you Kittie; Brandon doesn't even notice most 
people.  But, for some reason, he listens to you, I don't know why, but 
Kittie, he's no wounded mouse for you to toy with.  I'm coming home, 
I'm on 55 and I'm driving fast!” An abrupt click on the other end of 
the phone ended the angry conversation. As Kittie hung up her phone she 
looked at her own wrists, upon them she wore a score of hash marks from 
her service in the war against depression.  Kittie somehow felt she 
knew Brandon much better now. 

Brandon sat in his room staring at an empty corner. It was an unexpected
phone call from his friend Marcus that had reminded him of this place.  
He stared a few moments more then got up and picked up a razor blade 
from one of his drawers. He knelled down with his knife and studied 
this empty space.  He started cutting the carpet.  He removed a large 
square from his dusty rug and carefully rolled it up.  The floor was 
cheap plastic made to look like tile.  It was stained with pictures of 
stick men and scribbles.  He almost smiled for a moment when he saw 
this, remembering when he and Marcus had done this as kids, receiving 
the spanking of a lifetime. Suddenly thundering sounds of familiarity 
arouse somewhere in the back of Brandon's mind, he recognized it 
instantly, it was Marcus.  Marcus's car was always recognizable.  A 5 
liter, V8, mustang, pure white, with black interior, it was a beauty.   
He had heard that car come rolling up the gravel in the trailer park 
all through high school, but it wasn't until now that he had thought it 
odd.  He thought of Marcus differently now, he missed his dear friend 
very much but felt somehow distant from him.  Marcus was a rich 
banker's son, a sarcastic asshole, an artist, and a chain smoker, an 
alcoholic, and above all a womanizer.  Brandon thought it was funny how 
truly different they had become. With a loud cracking sound Marcus 
violently swung the door to the trailer open, with a smirk not unlike 
that of the Cheshire Cat, from the Alice in Wonderland movie he 
remembered watching as a kid.  Marcus sang, “Hey asshole!” To which 
Brandon responded in the traditional manner they had done for years, 
“Hey shit head!” Brandon suddenly felt happy seeing his old friend, he 
now seemed unchanged, he still wore the same old Converse All-stars he 
had trudged his way though high school in.  Though his shoes were old, 
Marcus, had made it a habit of “dressing to kill” since he got that 
damn mustang.   Today he wore a dark black silk shirt, a red tie, black 
pinstripe pants, and matching fedora. “Heard you died, seems you didn't 
do to good a job,” said Marcus, as he sat on the couch next to Brandon 
fishing in his pocket for a cigarette. “Well I heard you hooked up with 
a fat chick last week, seems your loosing your touch, Romeo,” responded 
Brandon. They tried to force laughter when Marcus changed moods. He 
looked at Brandon, with a tired, white washed complexion.  Brandon 
recognized this look.  It wasn't normal for one as wild as Marcus it 
was the same look he used to wear when he would show up at Brandon's 
house in the middle of the night after fighting with his father.  Also 
this was the only time when he noticed the scar on Marcus's jaw.  
Marcus hadn't exactly been the greatest athlete in high school.  In 
fact he hated sports.  He would often skip football practice to curl up 
under a tree outside school with some book of poetry.   This fact had 
cut Marcus's father very deeply.   When he had quit the football team 
his sophomore year the two found they had little to talk about.  Marcus 
was awkward in the world of sports, and his father, uninterested in 
art.   That scar always made Marcus self cautious, often he would sit 
and silently rub it when he was drunk and depressed.  Ironically his 
father had one identical to it, only on the right side of his face.  
Both had received them the same way, a broken chinstrap, meeting the 
wrath of a frustrated linebacker. Marcus fumbled with a Zippo bled dry 
of fluid, and mumbled with a camel in his mouth. He looked as if he was 
about to tell some sort of story when he stopped, looked his dearest 
friend in the eye and said, “You doing ok man? You kinda scared me on 
the phone.” “I know man I wasn't thinking straight. Sorry,” Brandon 
replied. Brandon rubbed his joints; they were sore with the sour pain 
of alcohol poisoning.  He stared at the ground, then looked over at 
Marcus and said, “Before you even ask man, I didn't have any out of 
body experience I didn't float over myself and see my life flash before 
my eyes.  I know you believe in God and all that romantic crap but it 
wasn't anything spectacular.  It was just cold darkness.  It wasn't 
even that scary. Until I knew I was ok, that is.  There's just one 
thing dude.  I...  Well, I remember leaving, I was dead, well almost at 
least.  But, then for some reason I decided to come back, it hit me 
like a brick wall and I can't compare it to anything.  All I remember 
is laying there on the couch concentrating on breathing.  But I knew, I 
knew why I came back; I knew why I was here.   This morning I woke, and 
for the life of me I don't remember what it was. It's bugging the hell 
out of me I wish I could remember.” Marcus sat there silently looking 
at his friend, loosening his tie.  Marcus knew Brandon, and knew he had 
said all he wanted to say.  When the sound of an SUV on gravel came in 
the trailer from the open door. Kittie stepped out of her gas-guzzling 
automobile and looked at the expensive white car in the driveway. 
“Shit,” she thought. Brandon was perched on the doorstep, with the 
patient look of man who had lived past his years, when Kittie walked 
up.  For a moment the two locked eyes.  Kittie's heart fluttered, his 
brown eyes looked through her, with that shameful look of bittersweet, 
affection. “So should I go inside? Or has he calmed down?” Asked Kittie 
sitting down Indian style in front of him. “Nah don't worry, Marcus is 
harmless, I think he was just upset he wasn't there.  I know it sounds 
weird.  But he's like that.” “ I don't ever want to see anything like 
that again,” said Kittie. “I'm sorry,” Brandon whispered looking at the 
gravel beneath him. “Don't I was the one who...” Kittie started to say 
when Brandon interrupted her shouting, “How about we don't ever fucking 
talk about it. Let's just move on!” The two sat there silently for a 
moment playing eye games, Brandon eyed Kittie up and down she was 
fascinating.  To him there seemed to be nothing generic about her.  She 
wore a black corset top, with red strings, an old pair of blue jeans, 
covered with patches of bands no one had ever herd of and probably 
never would.  He loved her battered clothing, and her loads of 
multicolored make-up, and her tattoos, one especially.  On her ankle 
she had a cat sitting on the bottom of the ocean, surrounded by 
seaweed, and stingrays.  Brandon was about to say something when a 
shadow fell over both of them, followed by a voice, “Hola gato? Coma 
estas?” Marcus knew a little Spanish, He had taken two years of it in 
high school, making a C both times.  But, the only Spanish he had 
actually learned was from a beautiful, exchange student form Equador 
named Anna-Maria.  Somehow Marcus had seduced her when he was a senior, 
and had a running joke with Brandon about it. “Damn you and your 
Ecuadorian loving!”  Brandon replied, laughing. “Well what can I say?  
When you got it you got it,” said Marcus, with that Cheshire cat grin. 
As Marcus walked out Brandon noticed two things first he had striped 
down to a wife beater, and second he had made himself a drink while 
inside.  Brandon studied his friend, sitting in the yard chair across 
from him.  It seemed weird to him how only moments ago, Marcus had 
appeared, like he belonged in some office of some important building, 
now he seemed to blend in perfectly with the meager homes around him.  
Marcus closed his eyes and sat there with his drink.  Brandon could 
smell it, whiskey sour, a double, it smelled like death. Brandon sat 
there pondering his dearest friend's metamorphosis into trailer trash.  
A horrible tension built up between the three of them.  Kittie tried 
not to look at Marcus, as he sat there cautiously stirring his drink.  
Brandon searched the figures that were his friends looking for 
something, anything to break the ice between them. He searched for 
something they had in common trying hard to think, when suddenly 
Brandon broke out into laughter. “Dude you shaved your arm. What the 
hell?” “Slightly embarrassed Marcus began to laugh too, followed by 
Kittie, When their subtle laugher died out Kittie, turned to Marcus and 
asked, “So what were you going to get inked up there?” “Huh? How did 
you figure out that?” asked Marcus. “Every time you see a guy with a 
random part of his body shaved it usually means he's been dancing 
around the idea of getting a tattoo for weeks and has been drawing it 
on himself with sharpie for months.” 

The tattoo artist was a small Asian man with long greasy hair and golden
teeth.  His english was broken, and his body was marked with the 
profits of his trade.  His shop was a small hole in the wall, which he 
lived in the back of.  It smelled like the kitchen in a bad Chinese 
restaurant. “Sit down preze,” said the aging artist with his broken 
tongue. Marcus sat there sweating, nervously looking onto his two 
companions who were about to burst with laugher at his shivering 
appearance. “I promise it's not bad, don't be a pussy.” Brandon 
chuckled at him. “Time to break your cherry!” Kittie added. “Its not 
breaking cherries I'm afraid of as it is hepatitis, Marcus mumbled 
back. “Don't worry I've gotten work done here before, they're 
straight.”  Kittie said as she showed him a tribal band around her arm. 
The buzz of a steel cutting devise sounded behind Marcus, causing him 
to almost jump out of his seat, which he would have had he not been 
weighed down by the heavy stairs of his friends. “Let me see picture, 
one more time.” Said the artist. Marcus pulled out and unfolded a piece 
of paper he had in his pocket, and handed it to the man.  It was a 
heart, broken and stitched backed together with coarse thread. On one 
side stood a carefully drawn angel wing, on the other half a devil 
horn.  The angel half was slightly larger than the devil; evidentially 
some of Marcus's own work. As the man eyed the artwork Marcus sat there 
trembling, squeezing a stuffed purple dragon with ear spacers, and a 
septum ring. “Be calm, preze,” said the tattoo artist. “K one, two, 
tree.” The needle felt like an exacto knife cutting into Marcus's skin. 
 It was a sort of unusually satisfying pain followed by an adrenaline 
rush.  Marcus's eyes looked as if they were platters of burning pain.  
He felt as if he were about to pass out when out of no where the 
artist, said. “Tell me a story, when you were little.” “Shit, umm...,” 
Marcus said, in distressed pain.  “Well, I was born in Nashville 
Tennessee and in the neighborhood I lived in there was this small creek 
running through it.  Usually in Nashville it snowed at least once a 
year but once when I was only about five, it got so cold that the creek 
froze over.  I remember discovering it with my friend Dan. Dan was a 
little guy.” “Ugh,” Marcus let out a sigh of pain then looked back up 
at the ceiling. “Well, like I said I was little and we found this 
frozen creek.  We decided that we wanted to cross it.  I looked up to 
Dan. He was a year older and I thought I had to show off to make myself 
look cool to him.  So when he suggested that, since I was the much 
bigger of the two of us, I should walk the ice, in the idea that if it 
was safe for me then it was certainly safe for him. I complied.  I 
think I made it about half way when my foot fell through the ice 
followed by the rest of me.  God it was cold!  I struggled and I 
couldn't breath.  But, when I looked over to Dan I only saw the 
footprints of where the bastard was once standing.  So I realized I was 
alone, and took control if the situation. I calmed down and floated for 
a second.  I unzipped my jacket, and started to pull my girth out of 
the freezing creek.  By the time I managed to get out I had lost my 
jacket and kicked off my boots trying to get out.  I crawled on the 
bank, then started running out of instinct.  I knew I had to get home. 
So I just kept going I didn't think about the pain, or the cutting 
negative degree weather, I just kept running stiff legged.  I passed 
out in the den in front of the fire. Next thing I know its morning, and 
I'm in my bed wrapped up in blankets.” “All finis” Said a foreign voice 
behind Marcus. Marcus look shocked at the beautiful crest he wore on 
his arm.  He had forgotten all about the tattoo, he had been so into 
the story he was telling. “It's beautiful,” said Kittie with a huge 
grin on her face. “See man I told you only chicks get heart tattoos,” 
said Brandon. Marcus looked up from the new badge on his sleeve. He was 
going to return their fire, but stopped, Kittie and Brandon, were 
playing eye games.  They were high on each other.  He knew what was 
going on, and he knew the look in their eyes.  In some ways he was 
happy for him, but mostly he just slightly shook his head.  “She's 
going to eat him alive,” he thought. Brandon and Kittie walked to the 
car when unexpectedly Kittie took him by the hand. They laughed as they 
heard the sound of frustrated haggling between Marcus and The Asian 
man. “Hunred dorra.” “No, eighty, dorra.” Said Marcus with that 
Cheshire cat grin. “Ninry dorra!” Brandon sat down in the driver's seat 
of Marcus's Mustang, and watched as Kittie got in and closed the door.  
The two locked eyes, in Kittie's face Brandon found a sence of calmness 
and adoration he thought himself immune too. She pulled him towards her 
and kissed him hungrily.  It was the sort of kiss one remembers 
forever, the kind that makes your whole body sing, and weep and the 
same time. As Brandon sat there in the arms of Kittie, he couldn't help 
but think, “All it took was ink and time." 


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