Tattoo

• Jessica Doyle, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2011

She had one of those smiles that lit up the room, a thousand green eyes turning on her pretty face, her delicate demeanour, her long, full legs hidden beneath a twirling circle of talk and rose-coloured satin.

He wanted to taste her, feel her, and, as he rolled yet another cigarette, he imagined smoking her, smoking out her soul until it became as black and cold as the tattoo on his right shoulder blade.

“Does free speech exist?” she whispered in to the crowded room, and the laughter broke out, rising above the chatter and the sound of the creatures outside. She fell to her knees and lay there on the marble floor, looking up at the faces about her, particularly his face, leering, jeering, peering down at her pain.

His eyes, unlike those of his cackling friends, were not a jealous green, but a deep, striking blue, and she felt herself become engulfed in this optical sea. She felt herself drowning in his gaze, an ocean of emotion choking her very sanity.

She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to die. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask for mercy, and as he sat down and placed a hand on her faltering heart, his lips pressed against hers, she felt herself give way to the peace of death, her body floating through the blue, a bright and holy white.

The laughter faded, as did the taste of the indigo-eyed man, and she was left to float on forever, alone, cold, dead, yet peaceful, a thousand dreams inked into her pale skin.