A Pocket Archive (38)

I squinted at the mirror on the far side of the room, trying to watch as K.'s needles whirrled, plucking out a new design on my skin. My eyes ached, straining from trying to look too far to the side while I simultaneously tried not to move. Not that I could get far; the side of my head was stuck to the smooth blue leather of the tattoo chair the same way my thighs did to car seats in the summer. I wondered if the faint wrinkles from the stiches in the leather would leave an impression on my cheek. I smirked at the thought, and closed my eyes, halfway dozing off to the faint electric hum while enjoying the pleasant, tingling stings down my back, neck, and upper limb.

It had been nice of K. to get me in early. There's an almost euphoric excitement to getting tattoos, and I was giddy like a kid on Christmas- a feeling I'd nearly forgotten. Sometimes I liked to pretend I was an illuminated manuscript, and the needle in K's hand had transformed into a stylus in the hand of a skilled monk, who was diligently carving beautiful and intricate new stories into my flesh, composing a new chapter over the old, ugly pages someone else had tried to sear into me. It made me feel whole, beautiful. And...

Sleepy.

I yawned, and blinked, shifting my gaze to the brightly colored fish that drifted lazily through the glowing octagon tank in the corner. It would be interesting trying to fall asleep tonight, especially since tattoos itch and the cats, who insisted on spooning with us under the covers, absolutely hated the crinkly plastic of the aftercare bandages. It was unlikely that it would be a particularly restful night, but I didn't mind- I naturally slept less these days anyways and wouldn't mind losing a few hours. Somehow life was much more interesting and better when I was awake now than it was even in my most pleasant dreams.

I didn't want to miss a moment of it.