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Isabela Part 3

The message from Bill appearing out of nowhere makes my heart stop. We met through Josiah a few years ago. We worked together because he’s a partner at Ravina, the tattoo studio. He’s the one who gave me the flyer for Revolta, fired me, and told me to come study Music. And even though I was angry about being fired repeatedly under the pretext that I didn’t deserve to live a life behind that reception desk, when my dream was to be a singer, I still liked him.

I spent years depressed, studying Marketing because my mother crushed all my dreams, saying I was awful at singing, that her ears hurt when she heard me play the piano, and that my appearance was dreadful for a singer. So I gave up. But a lot has happened in the last few years...

Bill was the only guy I hooked up with as an adult who understood my trauma. He was the only one who respected my need for control, my aversion to being touched without consent. And he’s the one who did my tattoos. I have eleven in total. The first one I got when I was sixteen was a poop emoji with two little eyes. It’s the symbol of my friendship with Ana because when we met, she asked me if I wanted to be friends with a "bostinha," referring to herself. I retorted that I was another "bostinha," and that nickname stuck between us.

Working in a tattoo studio, I couldn’t help but be enchanted by the amazing designs Josiah and Bill created there. One day, as I was closing the studio with Bill, a Greek god nearly two meters tall, with rigid muscles, slightly tanned skin, and tattooed all the way up to his head—literally, up to both heads—he saw me staring at the display of designs we showed clients. He asked if I wanted to get one, and I considered the idea. I found the courage to explicitly tell him about my trauma, about my past, even though I hadn’t confided in Harry—he was the body piercer at the studio and my friend, if I can call a friend someone who only looks at me with desire—or Josiah. When he learned about it, he suggested doing a small tattoo on a finger or the back of my hand to see if I could handle it, if it would work, or if my trauma would be too overwhelming. His sensitivity impressed me, giving me some confidence, and I ended up fully embracing the idea of getting the art. I chose a Celtic knot, and Bill tattooed it on the phalanx of my middle finger. It turned out beautiful. It was just the gateway to all the other designs he did on my body and the start of our daily hookups after closing the studio.

Bill is perfect. He doesn’t ask questions, lets me take control, and is content just to play with his mouth. He never asks for more, never tries to have anything beyond what’s offered. In other words, he doesn’t try to have sex with me. But judging by the message he just sent, he’s grown tired of me too:

Bill: Hi, Ruivinha. I’m getting to know someone, so I think I need to be honest with you. We can’t continue anymore. Be happy, Isabela!

Damn! My eyes burn, but I hold back the sob in my throat. Even though I’m angry at this jerk’s honest words, I understand him. It’s a huge burden being with a woman who has touch trauma, a messed-up woman like me.

My heart aches, and even with the blazing sun dominating the city, I feel cold. Even though my soul is bleeding, I force myself to walk to the next class and pretend I heard something said by the middle-aged man in front of the class. When I collapse on my bed at the end of the day, I stare at the baseball bat by the front door.

I’m so messed up. I can’t even sleep without having pepper spray on the nightstand or the damn bat that saved my life by the door.

How can I force anyone to accept the poisonous shards of what’s left of me? In the end, I need to be alone. The only woman who can touch me besides my grandmother is Ana. And even with my friend, I broke it off. We didn’t speak for years because of my anger, and other things I did to hurt her due to jealousy of her new friends and resentment over her throwing a traumatic past situation in my face. I barely have faith, but I use the little I have to thank God for giving me Ana back.

And even with friends, I hate myself for feeling alone at this moment.

I think about calling Ana, but she’s probably asleep, or busy with her boyfriend...

I think about calling my grandmother, but the phone shows it’s past midnight, and she goes to bed early.

I stare at the Big Bad Wolf Night flyer in my hands and then fall asleep.

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