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Most of the time it happens in the summer. I guess it's the boredom maybe, coupled with the fact that I don't know anyone other than myself that willingly wears long sleeves in three digit temperatures. Blank, available canvas. Opportunity. Motivation. I can only guess though. It's- they're not even good really. The drawings. Crooked squiggles and poorly overlapped lines and bad attempts at shading. I've thought about, more than once really, you know, writing something like "your flowers are shit". But like, what kind of way is that to introduce yourself to your soulmate? They're only bad at first. The first- two years? I was eleven and twelve I think. Then after the third cycle through fall and winter and spring they- they were different. The lines were more controlled and the flowers were more detailed and even the shading though it had grown more simple was much better. Even at thirteen when I was admittedly an asshole I was kind of impressed. Then I noticed the curl of writing down near the bottom, pretty looping letters much more beautiful than those floral vines. To me, anyway. It said "I practiced for you". My throat tightened a little, but I didn't let myself get too caught up in it. They only held fondness for me because they thought we belonged together. If they ever met me it'd be a different story.
A couple- a few?- more years went by and suddenly I was seventeen, still wearing long sleeves in hell's oven. Still judging the swirls on my left arm. Still an asshole. Therapy was hell that day, it always had been, but with the facility's main cooling system finally sputtered out after years with no maintenance it was no less than fucking sweltering. The jacket stayed on, and even my doctor grew frustrated. There'd been no breakthroughs, no miracle healing, no lifetime movie feel good bullshit. I was still miserable, and the medication wasn't helping. She suggested starting me on something new but what was the fucking point? I wasn't psychotic. I just had trouble keeping my emotions in check and okay maybe sometimes- a lot- I contemplated throwing myself out of a moving vehicle but there was nothing wrong with me. I was just being stupid. I was always being stupid. When I got home, no one was there. Not that I'd expected anyone. The step-dude had work and mom always went shopping on my therapy days. It kept her happy and I was thankful but it didn't stop the tiny niggling spite that wormed under my eyelid and made my skin twitch. "I'll be right here for you honey, always." Bitch. I didn't mean that later on, even felt guilty, but I'd always been a little petty.
That afternoon was the first time I wrote- or drew, I guess- anything back. The ink on my arm was faded and splotchy and I could tell they'd been trying hard not to wash it off. For my sake. The thought made my stomach churn. A thousand wistful, violently intrusive thoughts spun through my head and I couldn't settle on any one of them, scribbling sharpie all over the inside of my wrist until with a shock I dropped the pen. When had I rolled up my sleeve? When did I grab the marker? And, most predominantly, how had I fucked up so easily after years of being careful? Because I was a fuck up, my mind supplied. I was always being stupid. Staring up at me from my marred wrist was a drawing of a bunch of flowers with skeleton hands reaching up for them. It was stupid, and it made my cheeks burn with humiliation. My soulmate was going to laugh at me. Fuck them. They didn't matter.
I curled up in bed and shoved my head under the blanket like an ostrich and pretended to sleep through my mom coming home and checking on me. Fuck school. Fuck stress. Fuck depression. Fuck parents. And most of all fuck my stupid soulmate.
The next morning the loopy vines and flowers had been carefully washed off the top of my hand and replaced by a sugar skull with a flower tucked into the place an ear might be. It was pretty well done, the lines were clean and dark. I was still bitter so I refused to look at it the rest of the day. I forgot, that or I'd gotten really good at repressing intrusive urges, and didn't look again until the next week, therapy day again. It had a full body this time. A ruffled dress draped over a skeletal body, and a mask of a human face clutched in bony fingers. They'd probably used copics, based on the new colors added to the previously monochrome face and the rich brown tint of the dress. I thought about telling them not to waste their ink on me. I was colorblind anyway. But I'd already fucked up once.
The years passed and my mom forced me to keep up with my meds even though I'd moved out sometime in spring when I was eighteen. I was twenty- fucking shit four? Five? I don't even remember anymore- twenty something and life was just grand. Please take extra care to let that sarcasm soak into your mental sponge and truly appreciate it. It's all I'm good for. I'd switched doses and brands seven different times and nothing worked. I still felt like my lungs were made of cobwebs and my skull was weighted like a goddamn bowling ball. I couldn't hold down a job and I'd dropped out of college and re-entered three times. Good thing my parents were both loaded. Not like I'd talked to my dad recently. When was the last time I'd personally seen his coiffed hair and charmingly deceptive smile again? Around '04 maybe? That sounded right. Twelve year old me had no clue what was to come. What a naive little asshole.
The sleeves of my jacket dropped over my fingers like little curtains, dragging over my knuckles every time I shifted forward. The coffee shop near my new apartment opened at five, and I was always one of the first customers. Not that I was a particularly early riser, I just didn't sleep. No one was awake- or at least not out and about- at this time so I'd kind of stolen the advantageous opportunity for myself. They had comfy booths and only played dull quiet instrumental music. Plus, I can't make coffee for shit. I ordered the usual- iced caramel mocha latte no whipped cream soy milk and four espresso shots, cause I'm a difficult piece of shit- and turned to sit in my preferred armchair until they called my name. Except someone was in it. Son of a bitch. "What the fuck is this." I muttered without really thinking of it, and they- short hair, moles dotted over his face, nervous look, a boy I'd never seen before- whipped their head around to look at me.
"I'm so sorry," is what, unexpectedly, tumbled out of his mouth. "I was only waiting, I'll be gone in a minute promise."
I was stumped. "Uh, nah, you're cool. Not like I own the seat or anything."
"But you sit here every day, don't you?" I nodded dumbly and shifted my weight to my other foot. This was getting very uncomfortable very quickly. "Oh fuck did that sound stalker-ish? I'm not stalking you I swear but you always come in like right when I leave and- shit oh my god I'm such a mess." Before I could even open my mouth to respond- what would I even say? What could you say in that situation? What the fuck- his name (that I didn't even catch dammit) was being called and he snapped the book he was holding shut and scurried away. Great. Now I was not only an asshole but a scary asshole. How the fuck had I even managed that? I've got to be the least intimidating person to ever grace the earth. Minho liked to tell me my face was naturally bitchy, but Minho was a piece of shit. Plus bitchy and scary are different things. Turning the events over in my head, I distractedly walked up to grab my coffee when my name was called and swirled a coffee stirrer in it then pulled it out and licked it clean on the way back to my favorite chair. Upon sitting down, a crinkling sounded from under my ass even though I was fairly certain the armchair didn't usually make that noise. I slowly got up, setting my drink down on a coaster because I'm not a monster, and pulled a piece of paper from the back of the chair. Scaredy must have dropped it when he hightailed it out. Turning it over, a very familiar design caught my eye, much more detailed now but unmistakeable. A skeleton with a sugar skull face and a draping ruffled dress, human faced mask clutched in one bony hand, on a backdrop of loopy vines and flowers. My hands shook as I plopped down into the chair, the singular sip of coffee I'd taken definitely not the cause for the ice water currently pumping through my heart. I actually met my fucking soulmate and the very first thing I did was scare the shit out of him.
Fucking shit.