Chapter Text
Fred is losing his mind.
The fastest way to that tattoo parlor is to enter the mall through Hernando’s, the department store that sells slacks that look cheaper than they actually are. Out through the store’s interior entrance, there’s the tattoo parlor on the left, a flower shop on the right, and a row of gumball machines lined up down the middle. No two of these four establishments have ever attracted the same clientele, but Fred’s really craving one of those gumballs right now. Maybe the sugar will wake him up from this fugue state.
Because this has to be one of those, right? He’s been blacking out a lot lately. It’s happening a lot more often than it did when he was a teenager, and unlike those earliest blackouts when he would just stare into space like a zombie, Fred has been coming to to find that he’s been functioning just fine in the interim. He’ll find his dishes done, his laundry put away; once he even found a poem stuck to the fridge, in his penmanship, that he didn’t remember writing. Yesterday, he fell into a fugue during work. When he woke up, he’d apparently worked a whole shift. No one had gotten hurt on his watch, thank god. But the nurses all stared at him like he’d cursed their mothers. Some of the patients did, too.
Fred works at a mental hospital. How is he supposed to take care of these crazies if he’s going nuts himself?
He cranks a gumball out of the machine and chomps down. There’s a loud crunch and Fred thinks it must be a fissure forming in his skull; he has a bonkers toothache that might be a cavity and Jesus, he hates the dentist. The worst news of all is that he he can actually feel the pain and taste the sandpapery sugar. He’s conscious, he’s lucid, he’s in his right mind for the moment, and he’s still about to do this.
As Fred approaches the tattoo parlor, it’s like he permeates the bubble that separates the store from the rest of the mall – or popped said bubble with his honking nose, more like. His ears attune to a hard rock guitar solo that feels like it’s never going to end, and blackness falls over him like the parlor emits shade. The walls are studded with neon highlights, a kind of light that almost makes the darkness around it seem darker. It smells like sweat and ink and something burning, and the sound of whirring needles sears a line of anxiety into Fred’s brain.
The only spot of brightness in the room is the woman standing behind the counter. Her lipstick is glistening, her hair is red and voluminous and her white T-shirt and green apron do not match the uniform worn by all the other employees. It only occurs to Fred that she does not work here as he follows the flutter of her glittery eyelashes to the man standing next to her.
He rests his beefy arms on the counter as Fred approaches. His many tattoos, each depicting a different ferocious animal, scowl at Fred. They are only imitating their owner. “Afternoon,” he pouts. “Your first ink, I presume?”
Fred doesn’t have the spine to get offended. Of course he’s never gotten a tattoo, of course this guy can tell just by looking at him. His scrawny body is not only easily snap-in-halfable by someone so big, but an incomparably small canvas for ink, as well. He’s not supposed to be in a place like this. He can feel the atmosphere rejecting him.
“Eddy, what’s that supposed to mean?” says the woman, her radiant lips falling open in vicarious offense. She looks at Fred, bats those long lashes at him. “He’s having a rough day, sweetums. Don’t mind him.” The words come out slow and with perfect enunciation, like she’s spent weeks carefully rehearsing them.
“You’ve had a long break already, haven’t you, Gloria?” says the man, Eddy. The way his face has softened is unmistakable.
“My breaks last as long as I say they can,” Gloria corrects. “So…”
“Gotcha, gotcha.” Eddy is wearing a reluctant smile now. He looks back at Fred, ready to do some actual customer service. “Do you have a design in mind?”
They’re both staring at him. Fred just stands there dumbly. Needles continue to buzz, and he can practically feel them rip his chosen image into his chest. It’s not the pain he’s afraid of, though. He’s afraid of what he would be admitting.
Eddy raises an eyebrow. “If you haven’t decided, we’ve got some examples to take a look at,” he says, gesturing at the wall to Fred’s left.
Fred darts his eyes to the side, careful not to turn his head and thus indicate any interest. The examples on the poster are all original designs, like nothing he’s ever seen before. Thick lines, swooping curves, stark angles; most of them are animals. Whoever drew these has a clear vision. That’s the one thing Fred doesn’t have.
“What am I doing here?” he mutters, just barely loud enough for the people behind the counter to hear. He turns and walks away quickly, letting the guitar solo, still going strong, drown out Eddy and Gloria as they comment on the strange interaction before it all melts back into the bustle of the mall.
He spits his gum out in a garbage can in Hernando’s and looks up to see the security guard eyeing him. Fred’s face turns redder than it probably already was. The guard is a big guy, bearish, kind of cute, and Fred definitely has enough of a crush on him that he’s overspent at Hernando’s just to catch a glimpse. Now, he averts his eyes and speedwalks back to the parking lot. As if he needed another reason to never come to this mall again.
He wakes up the next day at a stoplight. It feels like a surreal, in medias res nightmare, and that’s what Fred believes it is at first. His foot presses down the gas reflexively in the change to green, and it’s only then, as he’s driving, that he notices the depth of the world around him, the passengers in the surrounding cars who actually have faces, the standard and sensible shapes that trees never are in dreams. The street he’s on is wholly familiar, but he can’t immediately identify where it is or why he’s there or where he started or how long he’s been driving unconsciously…
He has just enough clarity to turn into the nearest parking lot before he starts to panic. He pulls into a spot at an inconsiderate angle and parks before slamming his forehead against the steering wheel and trying to catch his heaving, runaway breaths. He could have died. It’s gone too far. He could have died, or worse, killed someone, and he doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t know how to stop this, or even why it started…
Well, that's a lie. Fred knows exactly what started this. It was the game – no, the twenty-seven games – against Crispin. The twenty-seven consecutive losses to a guy he’d have sworn was brain dead. The only thing more embarrassing that those losses is the fact that Fred can honestly say that was one of the worst moments of his life. He yelled (he’s not a guy who yells, especially not at patients) and he left the room without cleaning up the game pieces (his fastidiousness is the only reason he’s any good at his job) and he stumbled into the bathroom, hating himself (he’s always hated himself, but never quite this much).
And the next day, the blackouts started.
He should tell someone, he knows he should tell someone. There could be real consequences if he just lets his life barrel down this road. And yet, the consequences of fessing up to having a subconscious entity take over his body every once in a while, while objectively lesser, are what is tripping Fred up. He has firsthand knowledge of what happens to people who lose control of themselves.
It’s torture. Plainly and literally.
What other option does he have? Bleary-eyed, he looks up to see what building he’s parked outside of. Before him, a hundred bright yellow bulbs illuminate the sign: Hernando’s. Apparently, Fred’s subconscious mind thinks this tattoo idea is worth another shot.
At the very least, Fred needs to not be in his car right now. He scrambles out the door, hesitating for just long enough to make sure he’s got his wallet and ID on him, and bolts into the department store. He makes a beeline through perfume and cosmetics, and he’s coughing up a storm when he sees the cute security guard again.
There’s a self-consciousness that comes with being recognized at the same store by the same employee two days in a row. There is for Fred, at least, and in this case it’s more justified than usual because the guard is staring at him and frowning. His eyebrows are turned inwards like a cartoon character’s, and his arms are crossed in a custodial manner (although he’s pear-shaped enough that the intimidating bulk of him stops just below his arms). Fred hears a warning and a litany of questions in his gaze, and part of him knows he shouldn’t linger if he’s not buying anything. Another part of him sees the dark bags under the security guard’s eyes and wants to tell him everything – he hasn’t been sleeping well, either, and something tells him the guard would understand. The first part ends up being the one he listens to.
The woman, Gloria, is not at the tattoo parlor today. It is only Eddy manning the counter, all by himself, in a seemingly very profound sense of the phrase. Without Gloria by his side, the huge man takes up a tiny amount of space. He forlornly doodles on a scrap of paper that he’s pressed up against the cash register. As Fred approaches, he sees thick lines and swooping curves, and it becomes obvious who came up with the tattoo designs on display. Cordially, Fred prepares to throw the guy a compliment. But Eddy is clearly in no place to receive it.
He grits his teeth and lets out a frustrated huff of air. He throws his pen down; it hits the floor with a clack, and Eddy rips the paper into tiny squares. His whole hulking body is shaking, like he’s not satisfied doing as little damage as he is. Maybe he’s waiting for a person to take his rage out on.
Fred knows he does not want to be that person, and he considers slipping out to take his business to the florist across the hall (maybe taking care of a plant is all that he needs). But then Eddy sees him and flashes the most strained smile Fred has ever seen. “You’re… back!” He seems to struggle to get his words out at an acceptable volume. “Have you… changed your mind about the ink?”
Fred sighs, disbelieving himself, and nods. “Yeah. I’d like a tattoo. And I know exactly what it will be already.”
There’s a long, expectant silence before Eddy (whose full name is apparently Edgar, as his nametag suggests) speaks again. “Yes? And… what might it be?”
“Oh god, well…” Fred grimaces and shakes his head. The world around him seems foggier and more distant than usual in the dark of the tattoo parlor. “So, I’m a psych ward orderly, and…”
“Ah, I see. A heart over your heart? ‘These hands save lives’ on your upper arm?”
Fred scoffs at the cheesiness. How many of those must Edgar have had to ink to make those his go-to suggestions? “Just an orderly. Not a doctor.” Not that the doctors at his hospital saved lives or had big hearts either.
“And you’d like to express that how?”
Fred takes another big gulp of air. “So, lately I’ve been feeling like…”
“Like…?”
God, he can’t say it. It’s so stupid in every way. The straps of a life-size straitjacket inked permanently across his chest, is that what he wants? To carry his crazy under his skin where no one but the lovers he doesn’t have can see it? To make a constant mockery of the people he’s supposed to be helping until the day he dies? It’s probably Edgar’s job to put whatever a customer asks him to on their body, but Fred can imagine his reservations: Seems awfully big for someone who’s never had ink before. The ribs can be a painful place to tattoo. It’s kind of insensitive imagery, and don’t you think you should be talking to a therapist instead of mutilating yourself over your blackouts?
“You know what? No. No, this is a bad idea.” Fred says it authoritatively so that Edgar can’t protest, before marching out of the tattoo parlor once more.
He starts towards Hernando’s again before he remembers that to leave, he will have to drive. He can’t do that, not yet. So now, Fred’s stuck in this mall, where he just threw a fit and stormed out of the only store he had an errand at. Maybe he’ll check out the florist’s shop, after all.
And maybe he’ll be back to try to get that tattoo again. History shows he can stomach failure anywhere up to twenty-six times.
