The Past
Hunter age twenty
“Who’s Isabel?” Hank asks, moving the stinging prick of the tattoo gun across my skin.
“The love of my life I lost.”
“Aw, sorry, man. We gotta lot of silly fucks coming in gettin’ the Tat of Doom. Real stupid fuckers thinkin’ matching initials inked across the wrist is love branded for life.” He laughs humorlessly. “But remembering your girlfriend that passed is another story. It’s a better one. Sorry for your loss, man.”
Me too, I voice in my head.
I remain silent during the duration of my large tattoo.
***
“I don’t want it, Hunter. You don’t love me. You wouldn’t love the baby.”
“Please, God, no.” I fall to my knees, gripping the hem of her dress. “Please. Please. I’ll do whatever you want. You won’t have to lift a finger. I’ll take care of the baby.”
“No,” she snaps, her voice cold and fierce. “I don’t want this thing growing inside of me.”
“Please, Sally,” I whisper, desperately pulling at her dress and pressing my face into her stomach. “It’s not a thing growing inside of you. It’s me. It’s you. It’s us.”
“It’s disgusting. That’s what it is,” she mutters, stepping back and harshly yanking my hands off her.
My gut is twisted in knots that will never be untangled. “Don’t do this.”
She smiles through my watery gaze. “It’s already done.”
Sally’s found my weakness.
She’s going to kill me.
***
The shovel falls to the ground with a heavy thud. Dusting dirt off my hands, I rise to my feet and take a step back to admire three rose bushes I’ve planted by the river, where I saw that deer drink years ago.
I stare at the blood-red roses that are strake against the green tint of the leaves. Three rose bushes for three babies I will never get to know, for three kids that will never call me dad, for three children I won’t get to raise, for three lives lost.
This place by the river has become a sacred sanitary for me in a time of chaos. I come here to relax, to set my mind free, to gain my sanity, to pray.
Closing my eyes, I begin a prayer.
I pray for contentment and patience.