blue ; gallavich

25

MICKEY

I look over and notice Ian eyeing my wrist. He's been looking at it for twenty fucking minutes. What's he so focused on? Then I remember: the tattoo that I got when I was drunk. Some guy in the bar had approached me that night, said something about being a tattoo artist. I, while drowning deep in my sorrows and feelings for Ian, drunkenly tumbled over to the fat fuck and told him to tatt me up.

Next morning I woke up with a blue tattoo that literally said the word 'blue'. Now, why the fuck it says that I have no idea, and to this very day I still think, that's the best I could come up with? Yeah, I was more hammered than a fucking nail but that's no excuse for getting the word 'blue' tatted on my wrist. And it was in huge, scribbled out letters that looked like they were written by a two year old.

Tattoo artist my ass.

I can tell that Ian is silently trying to figure out the mystery behind the tattoo, so I simply reassure him, "It's just a color, Ian. it's pointless."

He looks up at me, then back at the tattoo, glaring at it intensely as if suddenly an explanation is going to appear over my head, looming above me to give him a clue as to why I have the word on my wrist. I was drunk, there could be a number of explanations.

"No, it doesn't matter how drunk you were. I know there's some meaning behind it. There's gotta be something." Ian insists as I roll my eyes at him. Jesus, Ian, wanna run a fucking investigation while you're at it?

"Ian, you're thinking way too much into this. It's a fucking drunk tatt. That's all. That's it." Ian nods and closes his eyes exhaustedly. I don't know when the last time he got a decent sleep was but it obviously wasn't any time recently since he's been yawning and nodding off the whole day. He's not the only one, though. I've been tired for the past four fucking months; the type of tired that no amount of eternal sleep could fix. But today, seeing Ian again and knowing that he doesn't hate me makes me just a tiny bit more conscious.

I look over at Ian, who looks like he could collapse into slumber at any moment, and I scan his entire body with my eyes. I take in every little flaw and detail, admiring every scrape and bruise. I then make my way down to his torso and I flinch, letting out a shudder and I squeeze my eyes shut, telling the memory to fuck off. After a few seconds my vision goes back to normal, but I end up at stage one when I look down at the stitch that is peeking out of Ian's slightly tilted wife beater. "Fuck." I whisper to myself, looking away so Ian doesn't see me break down when the image of his bleeding body appears in my mind.

"You know," he begins, disappointment in his voice, "I don't remember what happened. All I know is what people have been telling me, and it's like I'm not even living my own life. Everyone else is living it. And I'm just here listening to it. Like... I don't know. A fucking podcast or something." His gaze is still cast upon my tattoo, and his frown makes my heart crumble with sadness, the rubbish of its ruins disappearing so I can't build it back up.

"I want to know what happened, Mickey, I really do. I want to know what bent you out of shape so much. All I can fucking remember is seeing Kash-"

"Shit. You saw Kash?"

"Yeah. It was weird. I got us a bunch of food 'cause the fridge was empty."

Shit, if I would've just went out and got food like I said I would then this wouldn't have even happened!

"I have no clue where the box of food went after the whole thing happened. I saw a shadow and freaked out. The rest is fucking blank. Therapist said to watch out, though. That some shit might trigger me and bring back some bad memories. I just wish I could remember, ya know? It's not fucking fair." Ian hisses in frustration, and I look at him in a state of devastation.