There isn’t a lot of it, thank God, but it hurts. The blood washes away down the drain.
I don’t know how long I’m standing there beneath the water but I’m back to thinking about my family, and that starts to put me in a spin.
“Nice tatt.” I look up, and Lissa’s there leering at me. “Never got one myself.”
“Yeah, I live the cliché.” Most Pomps have tattoos. Mine is on my left biceps, a cherub with Modigliani eyes. It’s bodiless, with wings folded beneath the head.
It’s a cherub, but it’s a menacing, snarling cherub. Actually it’s downright creepy looking. I know it’s wanky; I had it done when I turned nineteen, had far too much money and way too much to drink. The bemused tattooist wouldn’t have let me do it except, well, Tim was there. Actually I think the whole thing was his idea. And he can be so persuasive. Thing is, I don’t remember him ever getting a tattoo.
That was before I decided on the path of single-income home debt, and I was heavily into Modigliani. And I liked the irony of it, drunk as I was. Despite what you see on Victorian era tombstones, cherubs have had nothing to do with pomping in centuries.
Most Pomps go for the hourglass, with all the sand at the bottom, or butterflies. Depends on how old you are, I reckon. We like our symbolism. Morrigan has a small twenty cent coin-sized skull tattooed on his forearm, and a flock of sparrows on his back, which extend to sleeves over his biceps. But he can do things with his thatI’m incapable of—they’re genuine inklings. I’ve seen them break the cage of his flesh and go flying around the room.
Mom and Dad had been horrified at my ink. Going against the trend, neither of them had even a hint of iconography in their house, let alone on their skin. They’d always been a bit suspicious of my own interests in that area. Morrigan had talked them out of disowning me. After all, he had tatts too, so it couldn’t be too bad.
Thing is, Lissa isn’t looking at my tatt. I feel my face flush.
“A little privacy please,” I say.
“But we’ve already bonded over your porn collection. And Molly’s sitting there.”
“Out,” I say. “Both of you.”
“But you look so happy to see me. Well, I hope that’s because of me.” And she’s gone. Oh dear, part of me misses her, even if it’s rapidly deflating. She is dead after all. Molly turns tail, too, and I get the feeling that she’s laughing at me.
I rinse off the soap and begin the process of shaving off my beard. I only cut myself twice which means that my hands aren’t shaking as much as they were. Once done, I dry myself down and dress, quickly and somewhat timidly, feeling decidedly self-conscious. Once dressed I take a few deep breaths and work on my hair. My hands sting, but they’re glass-free.
No one’s come crashing through the front door. I’m careful not to pick up my phone. Maybe coming home was reckless, but I had to recharge. I needed this—I’m hungry, and I’d kill for a cup of tea. I boil the kettle on my gas stove, cupping my hands over the flame.
It’s gotten cold. I hate the cold, and I’ve put on a duffel coat that Lissa says makes me look like a thief. I’m tired; I can’t be bothered explaining that the coat was my father’s. He gave it to me when I was little. It used to be twice my size, then—height and width. The first time I could wear it without tripping over its hem was one of thehappiest of my life. While I have this coat, I’ve still got something of my dad.
I set two cups down and ask Lissa if she takes milk or sugar. It’s an automatic gesture. She shakes her head.
“I’m not a tea drinker,” she says, and we both laugh. I open the pantry door, take out a Mars Bar, and start gulping down its various essential nutrients. I realize the last thing I ate was a Chiko Roll. I may actually manage to kill myself with my diet before someone gets me with a gun.
“One thing I can’t stand is noisy eaters,” Lissa
I don’t know how long I’m standing there beneath the water but I’m back to thinking about my family, and that starts to put me in a spin.
“Nice tatt.” I look up, and Lissa’s there leering at me. “Never got one myself.”
“Yeah, I live the cliché.” Most Pomps have tattoos. Mine is on my left biceps, a cherub with Modigliani eyes. It’s bodiless, with wings folded beneath the head.
It’s a cherub, but it’s a menacing, snarling cherub. Actually it’s downright creepy looking. I know it’s wanky; I had it done when I turned nineteen, had far too much money and way too much to drink. The bemused tattooist wouldn’t have let me do it except, well, Tim was there. Actually I think the whole thing was his idea. And he can be so persuasive. Thing is, I don’t remember him ever getting a tattoo.
That was before I decided on the path of single-income home debt, and I was heavily into Modigliani. And I liked the irony of it, drunk as I was. Despite what you see on Victorian era tombstones, cherubs have had nothing to do with pomping in centuries.
Most Pomps go for the hourglass, with all the sand at the bottom, or butterflies. Depends on how old you are, I reckon. We like our symbolism. Morrigan has a small twenty cent coin-sized skull tattooed on his forearm, and a flock of sparrows on his back, which extend to sleeves over his biceps. But he can do things with his thatI’m incapable of—they’re genuine inklings. I’ve seen them break the cage of his flesh and go flying around the room.
Mom and Dad had been horrified at my ink. Going against the trend, neither of them had even a hint of iconography in their house, let alone on their skin. They’d always been a bit suspicious of my own interests in that area. Morrigan had talked them out of disowning me. After all, he had tatts too, so it couldn’t be too bad.
Thing is, Lissa isn’t looking at my tatt. I feel my face flush.
“A little privacy please,” I say.
“But we’ve already bonded over your porn collection. And Molly’s sitting there.”
“Out,” I say. “Both of you.”
“But you look so happy to see me. Well, I hope that’s because of me.” And she’s gone. Oh dear, part of me misses her, even if it’s rapidly deflating. She is dead after all. Molly turns tail, too, and I get the feeling that she’s laughing at me.
I rinse off the soap and begin the process of shaving off my beard. I only cut myself twice which means that my hands aren’t shaking as much as they were. Once done, I dry myself down and dress, quickly and somewhat timidly, feeling decidedly self-conscious. Once dressed I take a few deep breaths and work on my hair. My hands sting, but they’re glass-free.
No one’s come crashing through the front door. I’m careful not to pick up my phone. Maybe coming home was reckless, but I had to recharge. I needed this—I’m hungry, and I’d kill for a cup of tea. I boil the kettle on my gas stove, cupping my hands over the flame.
It’s gotten cold. I hate the cold, and I’ve put on a duffel coat that Lissa says makes me look like a thief. I’m tired; I can’t be bothered explaining that the coat was my father’s. He gave it to me when I was little. It used to be twice my size, then—height and width. The first time I could wear it without tripping over its hem was one of thehappiest of my life. While I have this coat, I’ve still got something of my dad.
I set two cups down and ask Lissa if she takes milk or sugar. It’s an automatic gesture. She shakes her head.
“I’m not a tea drinker,” she says, and we both laugh. I open the pantry door, take out a Mars Bar, and start gulping down its various essential nutrients. I realize the last thing I ate was a Chiko Roll. I may actually manage to kill myself with my diet before someone gets me with a gun.
“One thing I can’t stand is noisy eaters,” Lissa
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