Violet Essay Research Paper As Violet bathed

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Violet Essay, Research Paper As Violet bathed, she paid special attention to her tattoos, each one reminding her of a unique event in her life, like an epidermal scrapbook: the rose on her bicep where she’d tattooed over Lenny’s name, the serpent vining it’s way around her ankle, the spider creeping up her right breast (so realistic that it sometimes startled her while dressing), the yin-yang on the back of her left hand (a vestige from her martial arts days) and, on her inner wrist, a crude cross with “FTW” (standing for “Fuck the World”) in a decorous arch above it. The “FTW” was her first tattoo, received in Lenny Dodd’s basement two weeks before she was expelled from high school. (When anyone asked, she told them “FTW” was the initials of her first

true love.) And finally, on her right bicep was the largest and most artistically-crafted tattoo; a skull, which to her memory, had simply appeared one afternoon along with a two-day hangover. She would never forget the surprise she’d felt upon noticing its fleshless face grinning up at her, more disorienting, even, than waking up in a strange room. Back then, of course, it had been rather fashionable, skulls were in vogue, but now she considered it a reminder to never surrender control of her own awareness, in that way, symbolizing the death of her former attitude towards life. Drying off, she peered into the mirror. The face she saw had softened with age, as over the years, she had grown sentimental. Was that the real reason she was afraid to seek out her old friends? In her

mind, they were still young, hardened, crass; still humming, “Nazi Punks Fuck Off” in the shower…Or did she simply prefer to remember them that way, afraid now to find them defeated, dull and alcoholic? Even now, in her bowling league, she was something of a rebel. These were women who had lived traditional lives, marrying, leading careers, going in the opposite direction as Violet; they never would have socialized with her in their twenties and thirties, yet they were now united by age and a common understanding of life in the previous century. That she had once been a punk rock singer (a.k.a. Penelope Puke) added to her mystique, for she had lived out their suppressed rage, and in this way, they envied her. When it was her turn to host the after-game festivities, they

would, often as not, find her scrapbooks with the old press clippings and dig out her albums to study the covers, sometimes reading the lyrics aloud and thereby causing Violet to wince; their deadpan delivery of her soul’s primal screams was an unintentional insult. Flipside to their envy, was their subtle gloating and self-righteousness as they spoke of their children, husbands and careers. Violet sometimes wondered why she did not ally herself with them by telling them of the daughter she had given up for adoption, giving them instead, vivid descriptions of her abortions, drug trips and out-of-body experiences. It was not a conscious ommission; she simply “forgot” to bring it up in their discussions, and besides, she’d never outgrown her love of shock value. Choosing to

sensationalize her life helped keep a certain distance. She hadn’t even told them about the phone call she’d received two weeks ago, a call from a woman claiming to be her daughter. Donna Nile was her name, and she told a very skeptical Violet that she was a weatherperson for a local news station. One look at the t.v. confirmed it for Violet, however, although she had not seen her daughter since she was a baby over thirty years ago. It even gave her a good idea as to who Donna’s father had been – most likely LeRoy, since Donna (not a name she would have chosen) had his frizzy black hair, his freckles and wide teeth. She looked so damn much like LeRoy. And all these years she’d thought the father had been Noah or Chris… Violet sighed, trying to push aside the dread she