[ WP ] Emotional pain can create tattoos as physical pain can create scars .

Thank God I have these tattoos. I do n't know what I would do without them. 
 
 When I first met him, he seemed nice enough. We were both in high school. He had a truck, a small brown Chevy that he used only to go to his two jobs that supported his parents. He had no irresponsible after school life like me. He seemed the epitome of a mature eighteen-year old. He was slow with me, and I liked that. He bought me a necklace on our first date. It was real jade, with a silver flower curling over the stone. I wore it every day, and I could n't stop smiling. He had always been awkward and shy, and I loved that unassuming manner, so unlike my last few boyfriends. 
 
 We dated for many months, and finally graduated. I became pregnant. I was scared, but he seemed ecstatic. We moved in together. That's when the fighting started. He got fired from one of his jobs. And without the equivalent of a full time job, how could we survive? Any time it came up, we ended up fighting. I remember crying in the shower where he would n't see me, but my skin remained clear. 
 
 The baby came. That's when I saw his other side. I ca n't say that I dealt well with the lack of sleep. But he, having no experience with little siblings or cousins, could n't take it. Our newborn was also quite fussy. One day I complained without thinking because the baby wanted a bottle ( cold ) and he had used warm water to make it. My complaint was born from lack of sleep and frustration from the crying that made my ears ring. Next thing I knew, the wall was splattered with formula. He was shouting, but the words were drowned by a searing pain on my left hand. A thin black tendril of ink curled from the base of my ring finger towards my wrist. He stared for a moment, but made no comment. I heard the front door slam and the tattoo branched like a vine. 
 
 Being a new mother, I had little opportunity to go out, epecially as I was recovering from the Cesearean. I willed the ink away, but it did not move. After a few days the redness faded and so did my husband's anger. 
 
 The days stretched into weeks, the weeks stretched into months. As time wore on, and more harsh words were slung, my tattoo branched and grew up my arm, but my husband pretended there was no difference. I wore sleeves. I rarely saw close friends. The few I did see were too uncomfortable to ask about my hand, for that was all they could see. I learned to tiptoe around my husband's temper. No loud noises while he watched his movies, no comments about this or that, the house is to be picked up before he gets home, be ready for sex at night. Our little one did pretty well. I kept him occupied. Until one day, I went to take a shower during the day. I should have known at that point that was not allowed. Little man was being clingy but I thought he was going to go play. I slipped into the bathroom but as soon as the door shut I heard crying. I came back out and found one of his toy trucks smashed. I searched for bruises, bumps, blood, but found none. 
 
 Behind his ear curled a thin black tendril, just like mine. 
 
 I packed our bags that night.
