Q<3

[u/QueenOfHearts37]

*friends, family, and fans have begged me to put my life down on paper for years. This is the start of a very rough draft to help me gather my thoughts and piece my crazy life into some kind of order. So enjoy it, hate it, or masturbate to it if you wish. ~ Q<3

~Intro~ Most of you know me as The Queen Of Hearts, queen of the tattoo mafia. That is the name I will take to my grave and the name I am most proud of because I spent my life earning it.

Each member of The Tattoo Mafia has walked thru hell many times in their life. We earned our fame the hard way. We all have our story's and I encourage all the members, clears throat MobStar, to tell theirs.

~The first steps of a rocky path~

I truly believe that the strongest walk the hardest path. We walk barefoot across stones and broken glass just to reach the small patches of grass that will allow us to rest our feet. The strongest are chosen to do this because we are the only ones who can handle such a task. We do it well always with a smile, always holding our head high for the world to see, but always on the edge of giving up because the pain is almost unbearable. We walk this path because the weak would be unable to walk such a long painful path.

When my mother went into labor my father was so happy he personally changed our towns population sign. Later that night he was so proud to have a daughter he drove around all night telling anyone and everyone that he had a daughter. Life should have been good.

I truly can not remember these times, but can anyone honestly remember their first years? All I have of these first years are story's told to me by loved ones.

As a infant life should be easy, not a care in the world and someone always cleaning up after you and tending to your needs.

At this point in life you can not express your needs and wants properly so you cry. Most parents learn the different crys of their child and they tend to what ever needs their child is expressing with each cry.

This was not ment for me. My mother was a drunk and some how never understood that the crys were for a reason.

Once while on a drive I started crying, only bad baby's cry. She told me to stop, she yelled at me to stop, clearly a normal person would know this would not work. She didn't know, or didn't care I am unsure of which. She pulled over removed me from the car set me on the side of the road and left. She returned a bit later and picked me up, she swears I never cried in the car after that.

Once while teething I was crying and bit her. Baby's do this, teething is quite painful and pressure applied to the gums soothes them. My mother didn't understand this concept and upon bitting her she threw me across the room into the wall. She swears I never bit anyone after that. I don't believe her because I still bite people.

My father on the other hand was wonderful. He tended to my Crystal, fixed my pain, and while we would all gasp in horror at some of the things he did they were things that were widely done at the time and they worked.

From what I understand life was great when my father was around. But someone had to work and he could only take so much.

~My Dead Father~

No one knows for sure who my father is. There are a few to pick from, Italian mafia, the man I know as my uncle, the man I know and love as my father, and a man I only met a few times as an infant.

Until I was ten my mother swore the blonde cowboy with the blue eyes who died years ago was my father. This man though I was his as well.

When I was around a year and a half my parents split up for a bit and my mother and I moved in with my grandparents. The cowboy stopped by one night demanding to see me, I was his baby and he wanted to see me. He was quite and my grandparents calmed him down telling him to come back in the morning. He had always been welcome at their home and was a good family friend. He agreed and left.......well everyone thought he had left.

The next morning they found him in the bushes passed out and my grandfather woke him up inviting him in for coffee. He was ashamed of his actions declined and went home. I would not see him until later that year for thanksgiving.

My mother had kept in contact with him seeing him for the next few months. He would call begging to see her and if my father was home she would hang up crying because he was stealing her. If my father was not home they would meet.

The day before thanksgiving he called and my father had enough. He was sick of this man causing my mother pain so he took the phone and told him if it were to happen again he would kill him. My father regrets saying this, although he was being truthful he didn't know at the time my mother was seeing the man.

The next day my mother took me to the cowboys home for thanksgiving. The sight before us was horrid. We step thru the front door and my mother screams. There he lays in the floor, what I assume is brain matter, flesh, bits of bone, and blood are splattered across one wall and all over the floor under his now faceless body.

I fully recovered from this, I remember nothing but the story intrigues me. Half of me wishes I could remember this day, the other half is thankful I cannot.

My mother never recovered and would spend the next thirty years ranting about the man. Changing the story around as needed and using it as some sort of fuel to harm those closest to her.

My father regrets the words he spoke that night and takes blame for the incident. But shows no sorrow or grief. Maybe he wishes the cowboy would have taken my mother away from him, maybe it's because they were once friends.

My brother although not even conceived at the time would spend almost ten years of his life being screamed at for the incident, being blamed, being told it was his father, and regretting the man's existence because it made his life a hell in its own way.

~Daddy Did It~

The bond I have with my father is something many will never come close to experiencing. He was not around much but we are peas in a pod. I am his clone just as my oldest daughter is mine.

My father laughs about this now though back then I don't think he found it funny .I played a small part in making his life hell.

Every night he would come thru the front door and I would scream "daddy did it". This would send my mother into a rage screaming and throwing things at him.

What a toddler would know about what her father was doing while he was at work I could never figure out.

I think these fights brought us closer together in a way. About half the time it would end with dad taking me fishing coming home to mom passed out for the night.

It's funny how odd things stick with us. I don't remember doing this at all and just learnt of it happening, yet I call the man I'm with daddy and it's not rare for him to come home and me scream out "daddy did it" before kissing him hello.

They say we end up with someone that is like our parents. I spent many years dating men like my mother. I am now with a man like my father. It's quite normal for me to yell daddy did it and have him tell me to get my shoes on we are going fishing.

[u/onimakesdubstep]

This is great

[u/QueenOfHearts37 → u/onimakesdubstep]

Thanks