Page 8 of The Tattoo Artist

I flick my new sketchbook open, sliding a pencil out of my bag as I tap it onto the empty page. I haven’t been able to draw lately, it felt as if there is something missing in my life. It’s like... like there’s this void inside me that nothing can fill. I try to distract myself with university and art, but it’s always there, lurking in the background. Come one Alex, just draw anything.

Look around.

I look around.

My eyes locking onto his figure.

My pencil dances across the paper, seemingly guided by an unseen force. Stroke by stroke, it brought him to life, capturing every intricate detail. I found myself stealing glances at him every now and then, observing him as he sketched and ensuring that my portrayal was perfect. My focus fell on his side profile, his features taking shape with each stroke.

Lost in my artistic thoughts, I notice him wiping the ink from Catherine’s arm before resuming his work. He delicately wielded small knives filled with vibrant paints, carefully etching them onto her skin. Suddenly, our eyes met for a brief moment, but I quickly averted, my heart pounding in my chest.

Why did his eyes hold such intensity?

Time slips by, marked only by the cessation of the drilling sound. I pulled out my headphones, curious to hear what was happening around me.

“Wow, that’s amazing. Alex, take a look,” Catherine exclaimed, drawing my attention away from my own artwork. I rose from my seat and walked over to her, who now had a lotus flower with petals falling down on her wrist.

“It’s really nice.”

Curiosity tugged at me as I heard a deep voice speak from the corner of my ear. “And you?” I turn my head and find myself face to face with the man who I had been quietly observing. “Are you here for a tattoo as well?” He asks.

“Me?” I stammer, caught off guard by his sudden attention.

“Am I looking at someone else?” He replies, nonchalantly discarding his gloves into the nearby bin.

“No, I’m not.” I respond, holding his gaze.

“Alright, how much?”

“Thirty.” Catherine slides out her bag and flicks it open.

“Shit, I left my purse in my car. I will be right back.” As she hurriedly left the room, panic surged through me.

And now I stood alone with the tattoo artist, in a dim room.

Awkward.

That is the only word that could explain this very moment.

“She better come back, or you’ll be the one paying,” he remarks, tidying up his workspace. I kept my observation fixed on anything but him, my fingers fiddling with the bracelet around my wrist.

“She will come back; Cathy isn’t like that,” I murmur, desperately seeking a distraction. Come on Catherine, how long does it take to get to your car? I look around the room, a painting caught my attention. It represented a woman, her delicate hands covering her breasts, while her hair cascaded down her back. A butterfly adorned her chest.

“This is beautiful,” I exclaim, only to realise that Ares, the man standing beside me, had silently approached the painting.

“People often say that, but few truly know its meaning,” he answers, his attention shifting down towards me. Ares looms over me, his tall frame casting an intimidating shadow upon my figure.

“I know it…” I whisper.

“Enlighten me.”

“It isn’t the woman we should be focusing on, it’s the butterfly. It symbolises rebirth, growth…” I answer, surprising myself by meeting Ares’ penetrating gaze. His eyes seemed to delve into the depths of my soul, reminiscent of Diávolos.

“You have a good understanding of art,” he acknowledges, a hint of approval in his nod.

“I know you painted this.”

“And how did you figure that?” He counters, folding his arms across his chest.

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