Chapter 10.
752 Words
Vinnie’s was tucked between a shuttered laundromat and a 24-hour convenience store. The neon sign was missing the 'V,' so it just glowed a steady, blood-red INNIE’S. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of green soap and antiseptic. A massive man with sleeves of intricate black-and-gray work looked up from a sketchpad.
"Kane," the man grunted, a small smile breaking through a thick beard. "Thought you were in lockup."
"Not today, Vinnie. This is Harper," Kane said, gesturing toward her. "She needs something special."
Vinnie looked at Harper, his eyes taking in her smeared eyeliner and the wildness in her hair. He didn't see a sick girl; he saw someone who had just come off a high. "What are we doing? Butterflies? Skulls?"
Harper hopped onto the leather chair, the crinkle of the sanitary paper loud in the quiet shop. She held out her left wrist. "Whatever you want," she said, her voice steady. "Fill the space. The only thing I ask for is a small wildflower. And the words 'I’m Alive' right underneath it."
Vinnie paused, his needle hovering. "You’re giving me creative control?"
"I trust the artist," Harper smiled, though it was a sharp, edgy thing. "Just make it beautiful. And make it loud."
Ryan hovered by the door, pacing a three-foot track into the linoleum, muttering about staph infections and sterilized equipment. Maxine, meanwhile, was leaning over Vinnie’s shoulder, fascinated. Kane stayed by the front window, his back to the room, watching the street like a guard.
.
The first bite of the needle was a shock- a hot, stinging line of fire. Harper didn't flinch. She leaned into the pain, welcoming it. It was a sharp, focused sensation that was entirely hers. It wasn't the dull ache of her bones or the heavy fatigue of her lungs. It was a choice.
As Vinnie worked, the room fell into a rhythmic trance. The buzz of the tattoo gun was a lullaby. He worked with surprising delicacy for a man of his size, weaving a tiny, resilient wildflower- a dandelion pushing through a crack in the pavement, around the delicate bones of her wrist. Underneath, in a script that looked like elegant barbed wire, he etched the words: I’m Alive.
By the time he wiped away the excess ink and wrapped it in clear plastic, it was long past supper time. Harper stood up, admiring the work. It was bold, black, and permanent. A defiant flag planted on a crumbling mountain.
"Thank you, Vinnie," she whispered.
"Wear it well, kid," he replied.
As they walked back out to the GTO, the reality of the "real world" began to seep back in. The city was dark now, the stars obscured by the orange glow of the smog. Harper felt a sudden vibration in her pocket. Then another. And another.
She pulled out her phone.
24 Missed Calls: (Mom)
15 Missed Calls: (Home)
48 Unread Texts
The screen was a frantic blur of notifications.
Mom: Harper! Where are you? The doctor called with the updated biopsy results.
Mom: Answer me right now. I’m calling the police.
Mom: Harper, please. We need to talk about the treatment plan. Where did you go?
Mom: MAXINE’S MOM SAYS YOU AREN’T THERE. HARPER!
The phone started vibrating again, the caller ID flashing a picture of her mother laughing at a barbecue three years ago. The buzzing was insistent, a frantic alarm cutting through the quiet night.
"Everything okay?" Ryan asked, seeing the color drain from Harper’s face.
Harper looked at the phone, then at her wrist, then at the three friends who had helped her outrun the clock all day. The bubble of normalcy wasn't just cracking; it was shattering.
"My mom," Harper whispered, her thumb hovering over the phone. "She knows I'm gone."
The phone didn't stop. It buzzed and buzzed, a mechanical heartbeat that refused to be silenced.
The buzzing in Harper’s palm felt like an electric current, grounded only by the fresh, stinging ache of the tattoo on her wrist. She looked at the screen- the laughing face of her mother, and then at the dark, powerful silhouette of the GTO. For a second, she considered throwing the phone into the gutter and letting the night swallow them whole. But the "I’m Alive" etched into her skin reminded her that being alive meant facing the consequences of living.
- Writer
