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The last thing I had expected was to put myself in yet
another precarious position. But I
wasn't a young lad anymore, I was now close to Ropeman in size, and he was far
too physically unfit to actually threaten me. Besides, in my mind, I was a thug, a real tough guy, so I
hadn't counted on reverting back to being a ten year old in his presence, but
that's exactly what happened. Insecurities flooded my mind as the memories
mercilessly taunted me. It was almost impossible for me to look at the man's
face; but the die had been cast. And for some reason,
I couldn't bring myself to call it off.
It seems incomprehensible now, but I still wanted that damn tattoo,
eventually selling my soul to the devil to get it.
The events resulting from my actions that day are among my
most difficult memories to deal with. For the large part because it was my own
doing, I have no excuses, and I could not offer up an explanation if I
tried.
I instigated it, and that shame will follow me to the grave.
There are times when my heart is riddled with hatred and
utter contempt, when I want to strike out and get my revenge. I crave that
retribution, and pity myself for the lack thereof. But there have also been many dark, very
drunken nights when I detest the face staring back at me from the mirror,
knowing, that at least in my view, the reflection is not completely innocent.
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