When he woke in the morning, the tattoos were gone. He couldn't say he was surprised. Even through the hours spent with gritted teeth, cringing from the needle in the overheated back room, he'd suspected what would happen.
He munched a piece of toast and idly doodled on his hand with a permanent marker. He wrote his name, and watched as that, too, faded into his skin
The steak knife, dirty by the sink, caught his attention.
No. He'd find a way to leave a mark. He glanced at the knife once more on his way out.
Not yet, anyway.
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3 comments:
Nice -- an inverted version of Bradbury's The Illustrated Man.
Tattoos bother me. There's probably a reason they're a horror staple these days.
If I ever did get one, it would be a block of text wrapping around a limb somewhere. Not sure what text, though; I'm far too fickle to be happy with the same tattoo forever.
It's the needles that get me. I really wanted a pithy, poetic saying on my arm at the start of college, but couldn't bear the thought of getting stuck. Guess it's a blessing now.
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