Anticipation

Anticipation

            Time, almost at a standstill, passes with a feeling of eternity. The moon is bright and the stars are unlike anything I’ve seen before. The smell of freshly cut grass continues to linger in the air, as the sound of a fresh water river flows just beyond the trees. Excitement surges through my body as I count the passing seconds. Ten, nine, eight…three, two, one! The time – 12:01 am. I am official an adult. I am able to vote and purchase cigarettes, legally. I can enlist into the Army, Navy, or Airforce, I won’t, but I could. I can marry; although, I don’t think I’m the marrying type of person. I can now express who I am and adorn myself with beautiful treasures depicting the soul I see within myself.

            I can feel my body. The excitement running through every vein in my body. A smile which only grows across my face as we approach our final destination. The giddiness which encompasses my every move, is almost unbearable. As the truck pulls in front of our destination, my brain begins to jump time and space. Filling with questions, questions I thought I had answers to. Where? What? How much? It doesn’t matter. It will be as fabulous and creative as me.

            Waiting to be called back, my sister, dad and I browse through the hundreds of pages hanging on the wall. There are so many designs. Depictions of religious icons, flowers, fairies, gambling, animals fill the pages. Some images are shaped for different parts of the body. Horse shaped fits around a belly-button. I would never – my body, insulated for the cold Wisconsin winters – would swallow the image never to be seen again. Other shapes form an arch in order to fit the upper arm, leaving the shoulder untouched. I now know that mine will be on my back. Someplace that can be hidden, if needed, but also seen.

            Dad falls in love a small red rose. That’s great. I love flowers. Roses are not my favorite but I love how they symbolize love, passion, and respect. But I don’t want just a rose. I want to make the rose stand apart. I need something surrounding the black. Tribal! Yes, that’s what it needs. But nothing I’ve seen is like the image in my head. It is all too small, I need something that contours with my body, something only I will have.

            Standing with my back towards the artist, I can feel the marker glide across my skin, creating an image which flows with the natural curves of my body. Once he finishes, I look in the mirror and instantly fall in love. The rose radiating beauty from the tribal vines which escape it. I agree, Dad agrees, and Sissie agrees. It’s time.

            I straddle the chair which I will become personal with for the next three hours. But I am too short and my legs dandle off the sides. Before the artist starts, the weight of my beautifully thick legs cause the sensation of pins and needles in each foot. So my artist, dad, and sister stack magazines under my feet until the pressure from is released and my feet feel as if they are on solid ground.

            The artist soon takes his position and I hear the sound of the machine buzzing. My heart rate instantly rises and my face becomes flush with anticipation. He says he is about to start and to be as still as possible for the outline. With so much excitement, I think that strapping me down to a table would be beneficial.

            The needle punctures my skin and the excitement is gone. OH HOLLY HELL! What did I get myself into? He makes small passes, tracing the rose stencil on my back. Every pass becomes more painful as the feeling of him tearing through my skin continues. I can feel the heat in my wounded flesh as he makes a second pass through the freshly broken skin. My sister and dad make a hushed comment about the blood droplets forming on my back. I thought about quitting and walking around with a half-finished tattoo; but, I could not live with the mockery from my family. So I sit tall and proud, hoping to mask the pain I feel surging through me.

            Soon the outline is finished and he begins the shading. I like shading. The pack of needles feels like a scratch in comparison to the outline. Once the adrenaline wears away, my body calms down and he is able to complete my first tattoo with no hesitation. As I glare into the mirror at my new addition, the memory of pain dissipates and I think about what my next tattoo should be.

It's Me

It’s Me

            Pinned. Lying on the floor, the weight of his 220 pound body pressing down on my chest. With every exhale his body sinks further down, leaving less room for my lungs to expand. I’m helpless. His knees holding my arms down as another strike bears across my right cheek. Searing pain envelopes me as his fist misses the intended mark and lands square across my right eye. Tears pool but quickly drain, exiting through the outside corners of my eyes.

***

            Karen Gentry’s essay “No Exit,” describes a personality test, the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI). “Candidates were given a list of ninety-three questions and a Scantron form on which bubble in their answers” (Gentry 17). The test would then be analyzed based on which words applicants would place together, creating a list of personality traits.

            Who wouldn’t want to know who they are or what personality type they have? She decided to take the test, but she was disappointed at the outcome, “she was always an INFP. An introverted, intuiting, feeling perceiver” (19). Almost insulted, she takes another test, then another, and another, hoping for a different result.

***

Smiling and laughing in the car as we head to Naperville, Illinois for his hearing – some parking violation. I begin jamming out to Nickelback’s “Someday.” I wasn’t paying attention as I turned the volume up on the radio while watching the trees and buildings speed past my window. Pulling into a small strip mall, I turn my head, still singing and smiling, and in an instant my eyes focus in on his hands. His white knuckles contrasting against the dark grey steering wheel. His hand releases and his arm flies towards my face. Instinctively, I turn my head in an attempt to lighten the blow I know is coming, but my actions result in a solid collision between his white knuckles and my nose. Tears well in my eyes as the blood from my nose lines my top lip.

***

            Years are passing and with this she given a new boss. This boss is different insisting all of the employees engage in an activity that will encourage everyone to ask questions to one another. To get to know each other. However, this posed an issue as she saw the picture of her husband on her desk. A man that left, unwillingly, when she was younger.

            She did not want to participate in the new game and was deemed a “hard-core aggressive anaconda,” a “dream snatcher,” a “limitation thinker” (21). Has she changed? Has all of the hurt and anger from her life changed who she is? However, she holds tightly to one possession, cassette tapes. Tapes her husband made before he passed. Tapes she would never let go of.

***

            Immobile, frightened, dead. He has me. On my knees he is behind me, his arm around my neck squeezing tighter until I can’t breathe. His arm feeling like an anaconda who constricts its prey before consuming it. My eyes being to blur and I am to the point of passing out. As quickly as it had started, he released me, but he wasn’t done with me yet. I flopped to the floor as I began gasping for air. I can hear him, opening a drawer, then the sound of metal clinking together. This was it, he is finally going to end my suffering. He grabs my hair, pulling my head off of the floor, my limp body following in succession. The feeling of the cold blade against my throat. A thought. One thought – FINALLY. My dead eyes gaze into his and the look of happiness fades away. He wanted me to fight, he want me to say no; but I had no more fight left to give.

***

            In a desperate attempt to change she takes the MBTI again. Hopeful the results will change. Her boss sees her, stating “There’s no use in retaking it. Personalities rarely change over the course of our lives” (21). Reflecting back, her personality must have changed. How could it have not changed with the loss of her husband? However, her boss was right. She was still an INFP.

***

            The blade slipped away from my neck as I dropped, once more, to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. One thought now filling my mind – Why?

            I started to plan and execute my escape. Leaving behind everything that would remind me of him. Anything that would remind me of the moment I almost lost everything.

 

 

Works Cited

 

Gentry, Karen. “No Exit.” Creative Nonfiction. 9 Sept. 2015: 16-21. Print.