• Ask Him No More Questions, You'll Never Catch Him Lying


    This is where I always have trouble — the very start. There's always too much to put down, so many places where I could start.
    So I'll try this —
    On October 27, 2008, Olivier Richard Hughes, my dad, had a stroke at the age of 42. He was at a hospital in Walker's Cove for just under a month. He came home for the first time on November 17th, four days before I was to leave for Paris for a week. That would be the last thing I would truly do for myself for the next six months.

    During that time I cooked, I cleaned, things that were normally on my chore list — and everyone else's. What I didn't realise, until too late, was that I was being conditioned. My name was my trigger, and I came whenever called, just like the good little house frau I had turned into.
    Now, I realise that I haven't mentioned a single like of tattoos yet — but I'm getting to that, I promise. I need to get to where the obsession starts, where I developed the need for Ink in my skin first.
    By the time I got back from Paris, my dad was asking for Christmas lists from me and my siblings. I put the typical things down — clothes, shoes, gift cards. But we were in the car — my sister, my dad and me — one weekend when I first asked. He told me we'd talk about it, that he'd consider it. Over the next week or so, we did talk about it. And the more we talked, the more excited and hopeful I got, because the more we talked, the better he seemed about the idea. He'd even given suggestions on what I could get.
    So Christmas came and went. I didn't have any Ink, which was mildly disappointing at the time. He'd put a dent in my faith in him — and incidentally, the rest of humanity. He tried to redeem himself, of course — because he can't stand feeling like the bad guy — and said we could go get my tattoo for my 17th birthday, if I could get us to the Strip under my own power.
    April came around, and I could drive well enough to get us there and back.
    Instead, I got a call at two in the morning on a weekend I was visiting my mom. It was Dad asking to talk to her. She was asleep, of course, but he didn't care. He'd gotten in a car accident that night; totalling the white Jeep Wrangler we had lovingly nicknamed The Tub, the car that was going to be mine. This turned into a feud between me and Dad, mostly, because my brother refused to talk to him — so he unloaded everything on me.
    Everything culminated with that accident, and I wanted nothing more than to be free.
    So on April 10th, 2009, I became part of the Bayless student body, as a fairly robotic person — still who I'd been conditioned to be. I hated it. I wasn't living with him anymore, but I still belonged to him, because he still called to tell me that I was selfish, to tell me that it was my fault he was going to rehab. That I wasn't welcome to come “home” anymore, that I wasn't welcome with him anymore.
    He's still mad at me, though he won't admit it — not out right, at any rate.
    So, when I moved back to Henley, I decided it was high time to take myself back. I wanted nothing more than to be Charlytte again. I wanted — still want, and will probably always want — to be free. I decided it was time for a Revolution, a re-Evolution. I wanted changes for the better, for myself, and decided to be selfish. I was going to take care of me first, before anyone else — because if I didn't, I knew Daddy certainly wouldn't.
    And so on March 14th, 2010, I'm getting my first tattoo — hopefully by the time you're reading this, Miss Vaughn, that this'll have really come true.

    I have Becca to thank for that design, when I first came back; re-Ev was her concept. She might as well have saved my life a few times, when I was still living back in that house, back with my dad. So that tattoo is partially dedicated to her, because she's my best friend. And she was my only grounding instrument as the rest of my life passed by as I was spiral falling under my dad's influence.
    On April 26th, 2010, however, is the day I'm free forever. The day I will never belong to anyone but myself, the day I get my wings — my 18th birthday. Those wings were what my dad promised me two years ago. And because he couldn't give me them, wouldn't give me them — I'm going to give me them. He won't stop me. He can disown me. He can take back his claim to pay for my college education. I don't care. The day I get those wings, I'll truly belong to myself again. I won't be a puppet or a pet or a practice dummy or a punching bag.
    I'll be Charlytte Brooke Hughes in all her rightful glory.
    Those wings mean I'm free, and I know I sound more than a little psychotic, and broken and slightly demented. And I know that for all intents and purposes, I already belong to myself — because I'm a person, because I'm a human being.
    But the image of those wings a so far ingrained into my mind that I can feel a pressure on the inside of my shoulder blades, on either side of my spine. Those wings are already mine; I just want to see them. I need their image on my skin.
    I want them so bad it claws ruts into my stomach, threatens to burn me from the inside out. And it aches straight down to the bone; it kills me, to know that even though I can feel them, they aren't there. That they're not mine yet. They're all I want.
    Sometimes I can't sleep on my back, or at all, can't have anything covering my shoulders because where they would be, should be, tingles and hurts. I like to fancy that sometimes I can see them, but I know bloody well that I can't. And people bring up this argument every time — that I won't be able to see them even after they get Inked onto my skin. But they'll be there, and they'll be mine.
    I got people ask me how long it might take, how much it might hurt. Here's the truth — I straight just don't freaking care. I'll grit my teeth and sit underneath the needle for a thousand hours if it means I can have my wings. I don't care how long I won't be able to wear a proper shirt, or wear a bra that isn't strapless, because I'll walk down the hall or down the street and be okay.
    There will be other tattoos I'll get later in life, but none of them are as important or as significant as my wings. Nothing is as important to me as being properly free.
    Sunday is my first move into being me again. Sunday is my first step into changing for the better. And I can't wait. I want to be mine again. I'm looking forward to the next minute, the next hour, day, week, month, year. I'm looking forward to college and having student loans, and scrubs, puke and blood. I'm looking forward to being old and cranky.
    I'm taking the first step out of my spiral fall; out of that vicious cycle of hope and despair, because if I can't do it for myself — no one else will.
    It’s time for a Revolution.
    I'm going to fly.
    All on my own.
    I can't wait to get started.