Blood and Ink

Content warning: This story contains themes of substance abuse, physical violence, and mental health.

Julian stumbled over the sidewalk; his eyes pointed down to the ground while he walked. "Another wasted night" he mumbled in self-deprecation, lifting the foam cup of whiskey in his right hand to his mouth and taking a deep gulp. He glanced at a gash on his left forearm, opened from the fall he had taken earlier that evening. Blood snaked down to his wrist, tracing the edge of a tattoo - faded now after many years, but surprisingly still visible. It was a Metatron's cube - a sacred geometry symbol with intricate interconnected lines and circles. Julian used the foam cup to smear the blood and groaned, annoyed. The symbol meant nothing to him - he didn't have much reason for faith. That was for hippies or fools or people who had never been savaged by life.

"Got to get this cleaned up," he sighed as he walked towards the nearby 24-hour pharmacy, its bright white exterior and fluorescent lights standing out against the cold and foggy night. He stopped to finish his cup of liquor before throwing it in the trash, then entered the automatic sliding doors and headed for the bathroom. "Just need to wash this off, then I'll buy something" he blurted out while holding up his bloodied appendage in an attempt to disarm the judging looks of the cashier and single other customer. Doing his best to walk a straight line, he made it to the bathroom and quickly closed the door behind him. He let out a deep breath as the tightness in his chest decreased back to its ever-present baseline. He turned on the warm water and let it wash over his forearm for a minute, rubbing gently with soap. He dared not look up into the mirror - he didn't need to see the bags under his eyes or unkempt stubble to know he looked older than 24.

He rinsed off the soap and patted the wound dry with a towel, then opened the door and made his way to the health and medicine aisles to grab a roll of gauze. He picked up the cheapest one he could find and slowly shuffled up to the checkout, setting the package on the counter. The wrinkled blonde woman behind the register scanned the barcode on the gauze, then read out the price. "Five forty-seven" she said with a large and uncaring yawn, leaning back a bit from Julian. He fumbled for his wallet and pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill. "It's all I've got" he said, almost a whisper and almost a whimper. He did not raise his eyes to meet hers.

"Alright" she grunted, "but don't come back in here! You know what your problem is? You don't know the value of hard work! I mean look at me, I'm sixty-five years old and still working the night shift. What makes you think…" she continued on, but Julian didn't hear much of it. He nodded and made noises of agreement until she stopped, then said thank you and stumbled back into the night. He fumbled but eventually opened the gauze and wrapped the cut on his forearm, continuing all the way down until he covered the tattoo on his wrist. "Gotta make time for self-care," he said to himself with an empty laugh, then started wandering in search of a bar.

It was around one in the morning when Julian made his way into "The Fountain of Youth." The smell of spilled liquor and burning cigarettes woke him up as he looked around the dive bar. A pair of large men played pool in one corner, leather jackets and aggressive jewelry signaling that they were probably bikers. On the other side of the establishment a middle-aged couple in worn clothes laughed inconsiderately loud as they took shots and cuddled up next to each other.

Julian walked towards the back of the building, pulled out a stool and sat as he looked over at a skinny young man on the other side of the bar. He felt a mix of pity and loathing as he eyed the man's dirty flannel shirt. At first, he thought the man was passed out, but the way he slightly rocked from one side to another as he slouched over his drink showed that he still had a minimum of consciousness.

The bartender, hulking and grayed, walked over to Julian and demanded in a grizzled voice, "Make it quick." He looked directly into Julian's eyes, challenging him.

"Whiskey and sour," Julian obliged as he averted his eyes down to the bar top.

"Alright, but I'm gonna need to see ID and you gotta pay up front. I've already lost money on this sad sack," the bartender snarled as he shot a look at the man in the flannel shirt. To call him a man was generous, as he was probably even younger than Julian. He stirred a bit and said something incoherent as Julian chuckled at that bartender's anger.

"Ok," Julian said, pulling out his wallet and pushing a ten dollar bill on to the counter alongside his ID. Good thing the woman back at the pharmacy didn't get a close enough look to notice he had more than the five dollars he claimed was his last. The bartender let out a "hmph" and prepared the drink, setting it on the bar in front of Julian.

Julian began to sip and watched the sports talk show that played on the bar's tv. He didn't really care about sports, but he was here to zone out and finish the night before passing out somewhere, and small-town sports talk was certainly something capable of zoning him out. The drone of the poor audio quality that was a little too loud, the smoke, the dim lighting, all of it was enough to serve as a distraction. He had just settled into a numb familiarity, then suddenly felt a harsh shove against his back as his bar stool began to tip over. He barely got his feet under him in time to avoid a complete fall, lurching forward until his flailing arms caught on to a table. He pulled himself up and turned around to see the skinny man in flannel standing there, a grimace on his face and eyes that showed hardly anyone inside except for a spirit of anger.

"Were you.. fuckin'.. laughin'... at ME?" the man slurred, a bit of drool dripping down the corner of his lip. His fists balled and he started walking towards Julian.

Julian stood up straight and lifted his hands in a boxing stance. "Fuck you, you pathetic drunken pussy," he taunted, a rush of adrenaline making his entire body tense. The bikers at the pool table stopped and turned, smirks on their faces as they watched the two young men puff up. "I bet they each hurt themselves more than the other," one chuckled. The bartender let out an exasperated "God damn it!" and began to run around the bar towards the fight. The cuddling couple didn't even notice.

The skinny man in flannel rolled up his sleeves then reared back to take a swing at Julian. Julian gasped and grasped the incoming punch. "Wait!" he yelled as he turned the man's fist over, revealing a tattoo on his wrist.

A Metatron's cube.

"Where the fuck did you get this tattoo?" Julian said with disgust, throwing the man's fist away and staring in his eyes. The man didn't seem to care and wound up for another punch. "Stop, wait!" Julian yelled again, quickly unwrapping his bandage to show the other man his copy of the tattoo. "Either you're just a dumbass idiot who happened to get a dumbass tattoo, or…" Julian's statement trailed off. The man in flannel stopped and lowered his fists, his shoulders sinking. "whadda fuck…" he mumbled before stumbling back and leaning against the bar for support.

The bartender sighed through clenched teeth, making his way over to the crooning couple to pick up their finished shot glasses. The bikers shrugged in disappointment and went back to their game.

"What's your name, and where'd you get the tattoo?" Julian asked, before walking over and sitting down next to where the man in flannel stood. He eventually sat down too, face drooping as he quietly started speaking in almost a whisper, almost a whimper.

"I… it's foggy. I was.... too young to... remem... Stupid tattoo! I think… there was crying... in the other room...the man... must've been my dad..."

"It hurt so much… and I… and I was scared. I just sat there. He told me not to...move. That's all I can... until I was taken away." He trailed off for a moment, then looked up to the symbol inked on Julian's wrist. He stared at it, tracing the interconnected lines and swaying back and forth in his seat, his body's motion in sync with the movement of his eyes. "My name is Adrian..."

Julian's forehead contorted into a mess of wrinkles. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. He sat silent for a moment, taking a few deep breaths, then started in a monotonous tone. "I got mine when I was six. My dad forced me to sit as he tattooed me. He said it was a symbol of God, and that it would protect me and my brother. I guess he was right, because when the teachers at school saw it, they called child protective services."

Adrian looked up into Julian's eyes and the two men stared at each other, neither one looking away. As they realized the agony they shared, a glimmer of hope made its way onto their faces for the first time either of them could remember.