Page 7 of The Tattoo Artist

Cathy swiftly interrupted me, placing her hands up in a calming gesture, granting me a moment to catch my breath.

“I’m sorry, Alex. I didn’t mean to push you so hard,” she said, her voice softer now. “Listen, I’m getting a tattoo, not you. Why don’t you take this opportunity to sketch the place? Get some ideas for your portfolio. Remember, you’re applying to transfer to that University in Seattle.”

I can tell she was trying her hardest to calm me down, but her bringing up my portfolio that I had to hand in soon made me stress even more. I haven’t even started; I haven’t even opened up this fresh sketchbook I bought. I had been stuck with my portfolio for weeks, desperately needing inspiration. The deadline for submission is only two months away. Reluctantly, I sighed, realising that this unexpected visit might just provide the spark of creativity I needed.

“You never mentioned it was in this part of town,” I grumble.

Cathy chuckled. “Well, if I had told you, you probably would’ve never agreed to come.”

“Exactly!” I call out.

We finally arrived at the front of the tattoo parlour, its name, ‘Temple Tattoo,’ displayed in elegant black fonts.

Cathy pushes the door open, allowing both of us to slip inside. As she approaches the front desk, engaging in conversation with the woman there, my gaze wanders to the walls adorned with a montage of signatures, drawings, and writings. Distracted, I turn my head at a ninety-degree angle, examining each unique piece of artwork. The array of images and words sparks my imagination, pulling me into a world of creativity. Maybe, just maybe, this unexpected detour could provide the breakthrough I had been seeking for my portfolio. I mean the art here is just beautiful, it’s meaningful. My fingers grazes the scratched wood, a smile spreading across my face as I read the messages of who has been here.

“Alexandra.” Cathy’s voice snaps me back to reality, and I quickly follow her through the narrow hallway, walking in a single file due to the limited space. The sound of the light buzzing, the peeled wallpaper.

Each door we pass reveals a different tattoo in progress, adding to the buzzing energy in the air. The receptionist pointed us to the last door, and with Cathy’s confident push, it swung open.

“Ares.” Cathy speaks, addressing the artist inside.

I shut the door behind me and turn around, my eyes locks with his.

With Catherines voice in the background, explaining what she wanted done – my eyes were on his.

His gaze held an enchanting allure, speaking volumes of unspoken stories. Pale green. They captivated me completely, drawing me into their depths.

He’s beautiful.

Yet, there was something strangely familiar about him, something that tugged at the corners of my memory. I struggle to recall where I had seen those eyes before, as if they were imprinted on my soul.

His hair, the colour of the night sky, cascaded in wide curls over his forehead. His strong brows framed his eyes, emphasising their captivating hue. With each blink, his long lashes brushed against his cheekbones. A prominent nose and full, inviting lips completed his features. I found myself staring, the intensity of my gaze causing a warm flush to rise to my cheeks.

“So instead of a diamond, I’m thinking a lotus flower with petals falling.”

Shaking off my dazed state, I notice Cathy taking her seat as instructed. I retreat to the couch in the corner, watching as he prepares his equipment. A delicate butterfly tattoo on the back of his hand caught my attention as he slips on black latex gloves. My eyes wanders to his tattooed sleeve, which decorated his neck, arms, and possibly extended beneath his shirt. But I couldn’t get the way he looked at me out of my head—it stirred a deep sense of familiarity within me.

Catherine opens the newspaper, flicking through it whilst Ares started on her tattoo.

“Oh, that killer is back?” She whispers, I raise a brow and look up at Cathy. She turns the newspaper around, and in bold letters stood:

DIAVOLOS STRIKES AGAIN!

My heart begins to beat, he was just in my room yesterday.

He marked my throat with an X.

I told him I wasn’t afraid of him; I shouldn’t have seemed to confident. Maybe he got irritated by it.

“I don’t know why people believe he’s real.” She whispers.

“Maybe because he is?” I respond.

“Come on Alex?” She closes the newspaper, looking at me dumbfounded as if I said something so utterly stupid.

“It literally says it in the paper in front of you, he strikes again.” I repeat.

“Yeah, journalist will do anything to scare people, it’s literally their job.”

---