Tattoo

The battlescar is carved like two waves and new moon engaged, in between, there is a sail. It is red.

The tattoo artist said it was a moon sign of my astrological sign, Libra.

For three years now since I came out, I have always wanted to get a tattoo, something that could mark the stage to represent the decision.

I finally had it during my tour of duty in Puerto Galera for the Holy Week.

First, Ivan, the tattoo artist, put on a stencil of what would be a lifelong reminder of a decision. Then he had me prepare for the pain.

"Huwag mong labanan ang sakit, breathe in and out ka lang," he told. (Some life advice).
I had earlier told him to ink it red, not the regular black, and he chose a Ferrari red ink.

As he begun, the initial "drilling" of the needle was not as painful as anticipated. After a while, it had a numbing effect that I almost didn't notice, the tattoo was finished.

Ivan covered the tattoo with tissue which he taped unto my skin.

Later that night, intoxicated with vodka, I texted R. and T.P. the real reason why I got the tattoo.

"It's he-who-doesn't-have-a-name," I texted. "I wanted something to represent him, of the memory. I don't want him inside my head," I continued.

R., and later on N., didn't like the reason behind my getting it.

"Why would you want to remember it forever?" R. asked.

Because I probably would, with or without the tattoo.

When I'm old and gray, with a mind too frail to remember, the battlescar will remain amidst the growing unfamiliarity with what once were familiar: people, places, incidents. It's stark redness will bring me back to a place, where once I had loved (and failed as all endeavors in this life are indisposed). Like an oracle, it would speak of the tales of the conqueror and the conquered, however indistinguishable both could be sometimes.

And the warrior would look back, his skin dry and sagging. His eyes, wary but full of wisdom. He would close his eyes and ride with the wind, with dried leaves flying in his wake -- and the tale would be repeated.