Hematoma Ch. 04

Life became normal that week. If my life could be normal. My fellow boxpushers at the warehouse teased at the new swath of bandages on my hand and arm as I sat working the box tie machine.

"What'd you do, Shay?" laughed my supervisor.

"Oh you know... Damn cat got to me again," I said lightly.

"What breed, a fucking tiger?"

But beyond that, no questions were asked. This might have been the only job I could get where my injuries were never a cause for concern unless they interfered with my work. I had never been able to hold a job in retail because of my constant bandaging and the increasing number of piercings in my face and tattoos on my arms.

I got off work that day at just past noon, having gone in early in the morning. My exhaustion had just set in from the long hours and, as I changed back into my street clothes in the staff room, I desperately needed a pick-me-up.

My favorite coffee shop was a dozen or so blocks east of the warehouse, which sat by the Delaware river. Walking or biking was the easiest way to get around the city, and I favored walks. Those dozen blocks would give me time to think about what I'd been putting off for the last couple of days.

The incident with Jade had left me feeling numb. For a few hours after he left, I had felt... inhuman. I felt like a monster. My wounds had already started to scab by the time I decided to bandage them up. After draining my tears, I stopped feeling or caring. I shoved the "toybox" far under my bed, ashamed of myself and no longer wanting this part of my life to be in me.

Why, why did I have to be like this? Why was I given this predilection? I began to hate myself for it again. I didn't leave the house for anything but work that week, and this trip to the coffee house was the first venture into society I had undertaken since the club. The club wouldn't be happening again. I had promised that to myself. With sadness I promised I would never go again.

Why did I have to have this thing inside me that made me give everything up? My friends, my love life, my sex life, my social life. Everything was disappearing because of my sexual addiction to pain.

I reached the coffee shop in a half-hour's brisk walk, a tiny place on the edge of South Street with wide glass windows and a very earthy interior. A bell chimed above me as I pushed the door open and strode to the counter. I ordered only a coffee, with cream and sugar.

Having sat myself at a table near the back of the shop, still next to one of the wide windows, I slipped off my wool coat and sighed, letting my eyes flutter closed for a moment. Only half past noon and this day felt like it had taken forever. Every day was an eternity now. I righted myself in my seat and wrapped my hand around the white ceramic cup, savoring its warmth that seemed to bring life back to my body. I emptied my mind and watched passersby from the window, hipsters on their single-speed bikes and men in suits coming and going somewhere.

As I took a sip of my coffee and continued watching the sidewalk, a passerby in a black hooded jacket walked into my view.

And he stopped.

I paused with the coffee cup halfway up to my mouth for another sip, and watched as the man turned his head and met my eyes beneath the hood of that jacket, zip-up hoodie beneath black leather, and my heart dropped into my stomach as I recognized their gaze through the aviator sunglasses.

It was Yorick.

I sat open-mouthed and wondering why he had stopped and looked at me, when he turned his head forward and kept walking. My breath released. Just a coincidence... He was just walking by. But why had he even looked at me?

The bell over the door tinkled cheerfully again. It couldn't be...

But there he was. Yorick sauntered past the counter and directly towards me, his long legs taking their long strides in heavy leather boots that clunked loudly on the wood floors. One hand was buried in the pocket of his aging leather jacket, the other lowering the hood from his face and unleashing that sheet of inky hair. The sunglasses followed suit, folded and tucked into the collar of a gray t-shirt under his jacket. Finally his boots thudded to a stop in front of my table, with Yorick smirking down at me with a strangely knowing sparkle in his eyes.

"Hello, Shay," he said smoothly. "What a coincidence meeting you here."

I finally managed to get my mouth closed and looked from him to my barely-drunk coffee. "Uh... yeah, Yorick, right?"

He smiled wider, his eyes narrowing. "This is a nice little shop. I'm going to fetch myself a drink. Do you mind if I sit with you?"

"Um... n-no, go ahead."

"Thank you."

Yorick turned on his heel and walked back to the counter, leaving me in a panic. What was this asshole doing here? Why had he walked in after seeing me sitting in the window? What, to come and ridicule me again? To get more money out of me for another piercing? Or was he here, possibly, to try and make me feel better about the whole thing? No way. That didn't seem like his style. In any case, he had followed me in here. This was not a coincidence, no matter what he said.

In the midst of my thoughts, Yorick returned with what seemed to be a miniature version of my own coffee cup. A shot of espresso... Completely black. I hadn't seen him add sugar. That was his taste? He drew out the metal chair with a scrape and sat down gracefully, crossing his legs under the table. His jacket remained on.

"So," he began, as thin steam curled from his espresso cup, "It's been a while, hm? I thought you'd call for another appointment."

I took a gulp of my coffee, trying not to meet his eyes. "Yeah, well... I don't really have the money now."

"I'd imagine, with that healthy tip I received."

This again... I sank my eyes into my coffee cup indignantly. How dare he bring this up...

"You're transparent."

"Huh?" I looked up blankly. Yorick's eyes danced with amusement... Pale gray eyes I hadn't noticed before.

"I can tell what you're thinking," he elaborated, lifting the espresso cup to his lips. He took a long, slow sip of black liquid before continuing. "I am not admonishing you, Shay. I know you did it because you felt like you had inconvenienced me, or made me uncomfortable somehow. I'm going to tell you that isn't the case."

My insides flared. "Why can't you... Just take it and shut up already?" I spat. "Who cares why I want to pay you extra for something? Why even keep harping on it?"

Yorick shook his head with a sigh and swirled his espresso in the cup. "Because it's clearly bothering you. I felt a need to clear the air. That's all." He turned his eyes to me again. "Isn't it you who's harping on it?"

Me? Was I? I averted my eyes from his and took another drink of coffee. Maybe a little... I hated him somehow for seeing me at my weakest. But somehow... I hated him more for barely reacting. Maybe it would have been easier to deal with if he had laughed out loud, if he had recoiled in disgust just like -- I shook my head. I didn't want to think about Jade... Please don't...

"Everything all right, Shay?"

Yorick's voice brought me back to earth. I nodded mutely.

I saw him raise his eyebrows at me as I finally looked up. "You don't have to be embarrassed about what happened, Shay." He lifted the espresso cup thoughtfully, looking sideways out the window. "To be quite honest, I was fascinated."

What...? My heart climbed a few inches in my chest, crowding my lungs.

"You were... Fascinated?"

"Well, yes," he admitted with a shrug, taking a sip of espresso. "It isn't every day I see such a display on my table. Watching you react to the needles was... How to put this." He set the tiny cup down, gray eyes lifted to the ceiling before dropping down to my own. "Erotic?"

Erotic... What was he saying? Was this the same man who had pierced my hips, who had told me to wait for another piercing before giving in to my demands for rings in my nipples? I felt for those same rings, still healing, unconsciously. That word, erotic... It dropped all sense of business between us. I drained my coffee and promptly choked on it.

"Shay?" Yorick said with a laugh, leaning forward in his seat as I spluttered. "For fuck's sake, don't die on me."

"I'm fine," I gasped, grasping at my shirt collar. "Just... why did you..."

"It's the truth," he chuckled. "Do you always react that way to... What were you reacting to? Needles? Is that it?"

I paused, fixing my eyes on Yorick's tiny cup instead of Yorick himself. Could I even tell him this? I didn't feel safe exposing this part of myself to Yorick... But when I lifted my eyes to his, that discomfort was snuffed out without warning. Yorick's eyes, those calm and cool eyes like rain-stained clouds... No, I felt safe. Why had I even questioned it?

"It's... Pain," I said quietly. "I'm into pain..."

Yorick's pale lips parted in slight surprise, eyebrows lifted. "You enjoy being hurt?" he mused. "Unusual. There's a word for that, isn't there?" A smile spread across his face and his eyes darkened. "A masochist?" The word hissed from him like steam, caressed between those lips. My eyes couldn't tear away. I kept following the lines of his angular face; his high cheekbones, his sharp jawline, his heavy and shadowed eyelids... Why was I so entranced by him...?

Yorick finished off his espresso and replaced the cup on the table with a small clinking sound. His eyes fell to my own cup. "A refill?" he prompted. "My treat."

I retrieved my voice from somewhere just above my stomach. "No," I croaked. I cleared my throat and tried again. "No thanks... I had enough."

Yorick sat back in his seat, still smiling. I took the opportunity to finally speak. "Why are you fascinated by this?" I asked, pushing my elbows onto the table. "It's... I mean, it's not normal. Other people don't do this. It's not like, you know, BDSM or something like that, it's not ropes and handcuffs. That shit, even married couples try it out. But this is -"

"You're harder on yourself than you need to be," Yorick said calmly. "No, it's not 'normal' by the standards of society, in all things a taboo. But what's wrong with that? I am fascinated. And I'm more fascinated with the medium in which you indulge this pleasure of yours -- my medium. Although..." He reached forward and traced a painted fingernail over the bandage around my hand that stuck out from the sleeve of my shirt. I pulled my hand back nervously, flushing. Yorick met my eyes again. "You don't only use the parlor to do this, do you? You do other things."

Maybe I was transparent... I swallowed and lowered my eyes to the table. Yorick seemed to see right through me... But anyone could have made that connection to my bandage if they knew, couldn't they?

"Don't look ashamed of it."

I lifted my head and sighed. I wanted to get away from this subject. "So... were you in the area today or something?"

Yorick smiled. "Just out to get some fresh air, I suppose."

I looked him up and down mildly, remembering the hood over his head and the aviator sunglasses -- and having just noticed the leather gloves on his hands. "Fresh air in that getup?"

He laughed and glanced at his own gloves, shaking his head. "Just enough fresh air. It's been getting rather cold lately. But no... I wasn't stalking you." He had answered my unspoken question. "I try not to keep holed up in my home when I'm not working. I fancied a short walk and -- what do you know, I see your bleached mug in a coffee shop window. I simply decided I couldn't pass you by."

I kept silent. How could I respond to that?

"What it comes down to is this," Yorick continued. "I would like to do more work for you."

At this I finally looked up again. "More work?" "Yes," said Yorick. "Tattoos, piercings, whatever you like. If you consent, you would be my canvas, to do with as I please. You set down your limits and I will paint you with ink and metal as much as I want. Oh, and of course, I wouldn't ask you to pay for any of it."

The thought of this was making my spine tingle. To be under Yorick's needle constantly? To be a 'canvas'? I wondered what Yorick's work was like, his artistry. "But... why, though?"

"Why?" Yorick repeated, his lips bending into an amused, yet restricted smile. "Because I have never seen someone like you. And I would like to play with that very unusual and receptive body of yours."

Yorick's words dripped like honey and stung like acid, and stole the breath from my lungs as they fell. Each syllable seemed to be caressed and fondled by his tongue before hitting my ears, and each seemed to strike at my insides like the plucking of a violin string. Could a voice feel like this? Could mere words make my body resonate in this way? Something strange had come over me. At last my dry throat found the strength to respond.

"I barely know you," I said. "We've met all of twice now."

"Then get to know me," said Yorick simply. He crossed his arms and lounged back in his seat. "I'm not going anywhere. So please, go ahead."

The strange sensation in my body at Yorick's words disappeared as suddenly as it had come on. I shook myself lightly and cleared my throat, seeking a question. "So... Yorick -"

"Ricky."

"Huh?"

"You may call me Ricky," said Yorick. "Karen started doing it ages ago and I'm rather fond of it."

I remembered Karen's nickname as well. "Well... Yeah, I guess Yorick is kind of a weird name, right? It's like, European or something, isn't it?"

"Scandinavian," supplied Yorick, hence now Ricky.

"Are you from there?"

"Originally. A long, long time ago."

The finality with which he said it made me think Ricky didn't like discussing his origins. When he spoke I had detected the faintest trace of an unidentifiable accent, and never really thought about it -- was that the Scandinavian coming out? But I left it at that. "So... How old are you anyway?"

Ricky's eyes flicked to the ceiling for a moment before settling back to mine. "Twenty-nine," he replied.

"Oh... I'm twenty-six." Damn, but he looked good for almost thirty. "How long have you been a tattoo artist?"

Ricky chuckled. "Now that's a question, isn't it... Let's see... I believe I started apprenticing at twenty-three, and I've been doing it professionally since twenty-four, so five years would be about right."

"You only apprenticed for a year?" I laughed softly and shook my head. "Are you really that good?"

"Yes," Ricky said bluntly.

Huh. Was that confidence or conceit? I still didn't know how I felt about Ricky's arrogance. "What made you wanna do it?"

Ricky looked contemplative. "What indeed," he mused. "I suppose it's the idea of creating a permanent piece of art on skin. Other artists have work that hangs on walls and draws eyes on occasion, but tattoos become part of a person. Not to mention..." He chuckled and looked at me darkly. "I am somewhat your opposite."

My opposite? "What do you mean?"

Ricky's eyes glimmered. "You enjoy receiving pain, don't you? Well... I enjoy giving it."

I felt the air leave my lungs again. "So... you're a sadist?" "Is that what you call it?" He glanced out the window, eyes squinted against the muted light coming from just beyond the awnings. "Fascinating, for there to be a word for it. Sadist," he repeated, and his tongue stroked each syllable with a hiss that made its way down my own spine, just as the word 'masochist' had. "Lovely word, I think. Yes, I am a sadist." Ricky's head tossed back to face forward, his silky hair tumbling back over his shoulders. That thick, black hair like shimmering crow feathers, healthy and beautiful; compared to my crop of strawlike chemically ruined hair, it was perfection.

And then something came back to me I'd been meaning to ask. "You... I mean, you like doing tattoos and stuff, right?" I asked. "Why don't you have any? Your skin is completely clean... I mean... Unless you have some that aren't... you know..."

Ricky smirked at my trailing words. "You mean, do I have tattoos that aren't visible?" he prompted.

I nodded, looking away.

"No, I don't," he said silkily. "My skin is indeed clear of any abrasion or ink, even my own work. As for why... They simply don't agree with me."

"You're allergic or... like, something like that?'

"Something like that."

It seemed to be an odd profession for someone who couldn't take tattoos. I felt like Ricky wasn't giving me the whole story. But, curious as I was, I figured I shouldn't pry.

I glanced out the window. In the oncoming wintertime daylight changing, the sun was already starting to set. I pulled my phone out of my phone and checked the time... It was four in the afternoon. How long had I even been here with Yorick? I hurried from my seat.

"Leaving?" asked Ricky, an eyebrow raised.

I nodded. "I... should probably get going. It was nice to see you again."

"Likewise," he said.

I started for the door, pulling my jacket back on, when that same voice stopped me.

"Shay."

Hesitantly I turned around, my hand on the door. Ricky had also gotten up, the clunking of his boots following me to where I stood. His mouth parted for a moment before closing again, looking me over. "What are you doing today?"

I stared at him blankly. "Uhm... Nothing, I guess... I was just going to go home..."

A smile spread over Ricky's face, his eyes sparkling again. "Come home with me," he said quietly. "I really would like to work on you."

Come home with him? This man, who I barely knew, who entranced me in a way I didn't understand, who knew and was fascinated by my addiction to pain; he wanted to take me home.

And there was only one response for it all.

"Okay."