BRINK: Book 1 - The Passing Read Free

books of sample scripts and various shading techniques, my silly smile only faltering when she turned to me and asked if I wanted to go first.
    “Ah...” I stammered, feeling hot and cold all at the same time. “Maybe it would be best if , ah...if Johanna...?”
    But my friend was one step ahead of me – she'd already jumped into the chair, grinning and holding out her forearm. “Are you kidding?” she said to Maria. “There's no way I'm going to wait any longer for this. Brynn'll have to go second.” I silently smiled her my thanks, thinking I just needed a little more time to be ready.
    But two hours later, after watching Johanna act practically bored throughout the entire creation of her tattoo, I was no closer to being okay with the idea of submitting myself to the same procedure. In fact, I had almost completely talked myself out of it.
    “It really doesn't hurt much at all,” Johanna assured me. “And I'll be right here to distract you.”
    I eyed her slender forearm, now puffy and red and oh-so-permanently marked.
    “It's not the pain I'm worried about,” I told her. “It's just....it's so visible.”
    Maria laughed kindly. “Perhaps somewhere out of sight, just for you? Above your hip-bone, maybe?”
    Lord knew that part of my body never saw the light of day. I hadn't worn a bathing suit without a t-shirt over it since I was twelve. I considered her suggestion.
    “It would have to be smaller, then. Maybe a symbol instead of a phrase.”
    “A heart,” said Johanna, nodding. “It's simple and small. And it's close enough to “soul” that it kind of matches my tattoo.”
    It was a stretch, but I agreed, and let Maria start on a tiny, outlined character a few inches below and to the left of my belly button. The needle hurt enough to make my eyes water, but I barely noticed. I was concentrating on pushing down the rising wave of panic in my chest. I kept seeing a memory of my father, dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a red tie, dashing out onto the back porch with a look of the utmost fury on his face while my five-year-old self stared up at him from the mud puddle in which he had expressly forbidden me to play. Even at that age, I had known that it was not so much the clay dripping from my hair or the stains on my dress that had caused his anger, it was my utter defiance of his will. He hadn't yelled at me then, nor administered any kind of punishment. He just turned around, walked back into the house....and pretended I wasn't there for the next three weeks. No greetings when he arrived home from work. No invitations to go with him to watch the birds in the park. No cheap, glittery plastic trinkets from one of the town markets. For me, his cold, impassive distance was worse than death. I pleaded with him to talk to me, hug me, play with me. I danced in front of him, scribbled him pages of drawings, told him I loved him, and I was sorry I was a bad girl, and I would never disobey him again. Like a chastised yellow lab puppy, I was completely unable to do anything but bounce around in a manic attempt to receive the tiniest consoling pat on the head. A pat that, for me, didn't come until I had decided I simply didn't deserve it. I saw his angry face in my nightmares for months after he started speaking to me again.
    Twelve years later, that same face swam so vividly before my eyes that I couldn't take it.
    “Stop,” I demanded, my breathing too fast, too loud. Maria raised her needle and looked up at me, concerned. “I can wait a while if it hurts too much,” she said.
    I shook my head, tears spilling down my face. “No, I...I'm sorry,” I choked out as I pushed myself from the chair and stumbled out the door onto the sidewalk.
    Johanna found me ten minutes later beneath a scraggly tree in a small mini-park near-by. I had almost stopped crying, but when she plopped down beside me I started up again.
    “I'm sorry,” I sobbed. “I know this meant a lot to you. I just couldn't do it.”
    “Hey,